


A Year of Apocalypse and Mayhem

by arturas



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: 52 stories in 52 weeks, AUs, Gen, Short Story Anthology, friendships, relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-06 02:50:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8731939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arturas/pseuds/arturas
Summary: Two junkers. Fifty-two short stories. Fifty-two weeks.





	1. A New Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Knowing when and how to end a story is something that, historically, I struggle with. Keeping stories short is also something that I struggle with, as is actually posting something without having sat on it for years beforehand. Therefore: 52 short stories in 52 weeks. Different tones. Different themes. Fluff to angst to intrigue and everything in between.
> 
> In the interest of not paralyzing myself with indecision I'm limiting myself to stories based around Junkrat and Roadhog. I'm also defining "short" to mean "4k words or less". I'll let you know right now that one story a week may not end up happening (real life takes priority, after all) but I fully intend to at least average one story a week. Yes, this probably means there'll be a major panic around December next year and the chapter count will double in size. But dammit, I need some motivation to not just leave everything on my hard drive, so let's give this a shot. I am also always on the lookout for constructive criticism - the whole point I decided to give this challenge a shot was to improve my writing skills so, if you've got polite and helpful criticism, I'd dearly love to hear it.
> 
> Story-specific notes will generally be at the end of the work, along with the "prompt" for that particular week's challenge and stuff I learned from it. Beyond the first and last ("A New Beginning" and "The End"), the prompts won't be in any particular order. I'm going to try to update the tags as I go; anything particularly important about a story will be mentioned in the beginning notes for that story.
> 
> On that note: Week 1's story contains depictions of violence and explicit language.

It starts the way most of his jobs do: with some desperate bastard pleading for their life at the business end of a shotgun. In a couple of months it’ll almost end that way too. Right now, though, a couple of months might as well be a lifetime and Roadhog has no idea of the mess he’s about to step into. There’s almost a dozen dead men around him, one living one cowering and babbling at his feet, and right now the only future he’s thinking about is the immediate kind – namely whether or not this idiot’s worth wasting a shell on. 

He’s pretty sure they’re not. But he doesn’t really feel like reaching all the way down to them to snap their neck. It’s a tough call. 

The man keeps spewing shit. Roadhog barely even listens. He’s heard it all before and he’ll hear it all again; the important thing is that the guy’s not trying to fight or run while he thinks it over. One shell isn’t much but out here it can be the difference between making it back to Junkertown comfortably and scraping in by the skin of your teeth. But he really, _really_ doesn’t feel like bending all the way down there right now, not after being woken up from a nap by an ambush almost bad enough to be described as a mass suicide attempt, and point-blank blood sprays always cheer him up. 

Then, just as he’s starting to lean towards saving the shell after all, the man says something about “Omnium” and “big score”. 

Roadhog promptly jams his gun right up against the guy’s forehead and grunts, ‘Repeat that.’ 

To the man’s credit he doesn’t immediately shit himself. Nor does he try to scramble away, giving further credence to Roadhog’s attempted suicide theory. Instead his eyes widen to saucer-like proportions and he stammers, ‘W-which bit, the food cache or the –’  
‘Omnium.’ It’s probably nothing, probably just the standard bullshit that floats around about mystical relics and shit that suits pay out the nose for, but money is money out in the wastes. Besides, the place blowing its top was practically his doing – if some of the clankers are coming back online, he’s damn well gonna be there to shut them down again. 

He forces himself to concentrate on what the junker’s saying. All in all, it sounds pretty promising. Some kid messing around in the ruins of the old Omnium has struck it big. What he’s struck isn’t mentioned but, the babbling man assures him, it’s big enough that almost every junker in the region is out for the guy’s head – even the suits are taking an interest in the guy, and not in the “only good junker is a dead junker” kind of way. Whatever he’s found, it’s good. Real good. Maybe even good enough to leave an unarmed junker alive to scrounge another day. 

Roadhog snorts, hoists his sagging jeans up with his free hand and paints the ground a lovely shade of grey matter with a single pull of the trigger. Few things are good enough to leave someone alive once they’ve had your shotgun pointed at their head. Some things, however, are good enough to make it quick. 

A big score held by one measly junker, eh? Certainly sounds promising. 

In a couple of months, he’ll wish he’d just wasted the shell straight off the bat.

* * *

He makes good time back to Junkertown where he puts his ear to the ground and starts hunting. All he’s got is a name – Junkrat – but he doesn’t have much else to focus on and folks tend to answer when he asks questions so it isn’t long before he finds himself on the trail. An erratic and seemingly random trail, perhaps, but it’s definitely a trail. There’s no way this much explosive damage could be an accident. 

Sooner rather than later he starts finding bodies amongst the debris – charred, mutilated bodies that are more often than not scattered in several pieces around a wide area. A couple times he finds bodies with clean shots through their skulls and wonders if he’s going to have to change who he’s hunting. The explosive trail always continues, though, and he follows it patiently. 

After a couple months he has to admit he’s developed a grudging respect for this Junkrat character. The kid’s got most of the wasteland out for his head, no allies to speak of and seemingly no care for things like stealth or covering his tracks. Yet he’s still alive, uncaptured and – most importantly – still with whatever it is he found in the Omnium. Probably along with a healthy dose of radiation poisoning too, if Roadhog’s memories are accurate. 

But grudging respect or no, a big score is a big score and months of tracking are months of tracking. He’s not walking away empty-handed. 

So Roadhog keeps his ear to the ground and keeps hunting. He’s patient and persistent. Sooner or later, he knows he’s gonna catch up.

* * *

As it turns out, sooner or later comes about six months after he first hears the name Junkrat. As it further turns out, Roadhog isn’t the one to catch up to him first – a local crew of junkers beat him to it. Unfortunately for them, Roadhog is both patient and persistent and he’s close enough their bike trails haven’t degraded to nothing in the desert winds. He finds them holed up in some beaten-down shack a couple kliks from the last set of blast craters. From the sounds coming out of it – an awful lot of swearing, malicious laughter and some very loud screams – he’s pretty confident Junkrat’s still alive, despite the length of time they’ve had him to themselves. So rather than storm in immediately he waits and watches. 

Roadhog’s attacks may have been described as a lot of things over the years but attempted suicide will never be one of them. 

He finally makes his move around sunset, when the light’s behind him and the screeching of the bats leaving their caves is at its worst. It’s almost fucking clinical. 

The trio milling around the bikes take a double hit of point-blank buckshot and are cut down before they’re even aware of an attack. One of the pair by the shack shouts and raises his weapon but Roadhog’s faster; he hooks the man with practiced precision, pulling him directly into a readied fist at literal break-neck speed. By the time the other realizes what’s happened it’s too late, far too late, and he’s brought down by a shot in the back as he turns to run. 

The last one, a wiry little bastard with a grey bandanna permanently pulled up under his eyes, is in with Junkrat. He’s also apparently oblivious as hell as it takes him a good minute or two to realise that “Spud” isn’t replying to his shouts for more grog, then a further few minutes to realise he’s gonna have to get up and get it himself. 

Roadhog catches him in the guts with a shell just as he’s leaving the room and the blast sends him sprawling back through the doorway with a muffled scream. The sheet that was serving as a makeshift door tears free from its duct-tape hinges, dragged down by the weight of the dying man, and the sunset light filters into the room beyond. 

For the first time, Roadhog lays eyes on Junkrat. 

Even for a skinny junker kid beat half to death he isn’t much to look at. He’s curled over on himself in the centre of the room like some kind of overlong dog, clad only in a pair of cut-off jeans and practically covered in dried blood the colour of rust. Fuck knows what else he’s covered in – even through his mask Roadhog catches a faint whiff of something horribly pungent (something smoky, something rotten, something fecal) and it’s bad enough that he actually stops in the doorway. 

The mop of singed blond hair spasms. For a moment or two Roadhog thinks maybe he’s spent too long waiting for Bandanna to come out, that the kid’s already toast (smelling like that, it’s a real possibility). Then it twitches again and a series of gangly limbs extract themselves from the huddled mess as the kid looks up at him. Correction – grins up at him, with a mouth almost too big for his face that’s full of pointy little teeth. It’s a nervous grin, a scared grin, but there’s something feral behind the kid’s darting eyes at the same time. Something that reminds Roadhog of a taipan in a hole. 

Grey Bandanna lets out a gurgling scream. Without dropping his gaze from his target Roadhog raises his leg and crushes Bandanna’s windpipe with one steel-capped boot. 

The kid’s grin gets bigger. More bloodthirsty. He’s a feral creature backed into a corner but there’s blood in the air and he can smell it. 

Junkrat titters, giggling as he licks his lips. The sound is as disturbing as his appearance. ‘So you’re Roadhog, eh? I was beginnin’ to think ya weren’t gonna show up.’ 

Roadhog stares at the multitude of cuts, burns and bruises on Junkrat’s body. Then he stares at the corpse at his feet (wait, it’s still wheezing; he stomps its throat again and it finally falls silent). Finally, he looks back at the kid, tilting his head.  
If this is some kind of plan to get him here it’s a fucking _stupid_ one. 

‘Heh.’ Junkrat drags one shaking hand across his mouth, smearing blood and shit-knows-what-else across his face. ‘I know what you’re thinkin’ – ambush, right? Nah, it ain’t an ambush; I ain’t that organized, ‘specially after three-four days o’ those fuckers chunking me (least, I think it’s been three or four – kinda hard to tell with ‘em smackin’ me ‘ead an’ whatnot), an’ I ain’t out for anyone’s blood, least not right now…’ 

Roadhog watches him rabbit on in silence. This… this is surreal. The kid’s covered in his own blood, starved to a stick and had been practically comatose before he walked in the door, yet now he’s speaking at a hundred miles an hour – more or less to himself – and still grinning wider than a saltie. Maybe one of the blows to his head was too hard? 

‘…and the fuckin’ bastard reckoned all he had to do was hit a bit harder an’ I’d tell ‘em everythin’ so I spat at ‘im (got it right in ‘is eye, too!) an’ told ‘im where ‘e could shove it…’ 

Maybe not hard enough. 

Roadhog takes one very heavy step towards the kid, levelling his shotgun at the smaller junker. He doesn’t say anything. If the kid doesn’t get his meaning it’s not worth elaborating. 

Junkrat’s grin drops and he raises his hands. ‘Waitwaitwaitwaitwait! I’m gettin’ there, I’m gettin’ there! You ain’t a talker, I can see that (that’s cool, takes all kinds) an’ I swear I’m gettin’ there! You’re after _it_ , ain’tcha? Same shit they all are, right?’ 

Roadhog grunts. He keeps the shotgun aimed straight at the kid’s head. 

‘Yeah, yeah, makes sense! Big score, everyone wants a piece, I get it. But I got a better offer for ya! You’re a big guy ‘round these parts (‘round everywhere, I guess, hah!) an’ (as you can see) I ain’t really all that great at keepin’ m’self outta trouble, so I ‘ad a thought that maybe I could do with a bodyguard and –’ 

‘Stop,’ Roadhog growls – the first word he’s spoken all day. 

‘ – wait a sec mate, I ain’t finished yet! I ‘ad a thought that maybe I could do with a bodyguard an’ you’re a real big bloke an’ look right terrifyin’ so –’ 

‘ _Stop_.’ This time he punctuates his sentence by stepping forwards and shoving the barrel under Junkrat’s jaw, shoving his head backwards and forcibly closing his mouth in the process. ‘I’m here for what you found. Nothing more. You’re gonna hand it over. I’m gonna leave. That’s all there’s gonna be to it.’ 

The glint in Junkrat’s eyes… solidifies, somehow. It’s harsher. More malicious. The taipan-in-a-hole impression’s back again; Roadhog almost gets the urge to check the kid for scales. 

Instead he lowers the gun to let him answer. It’s a bad move. 

‘Ya really think I’d still be kickin’ if they’d got anythin’ outta me?’ Junkrat asks, grin now a sneer. ‘I ain’t stupid, mate. Told ‘em I’d blow meself up sooner ‘n give ‘em anythin’. You? Mister big-an’-scary? Blow me legs off. Blow me ‘ead off. Ya ain’t gettin’ nothin’. Ain’t nothin’ you can do that someone ain’t tried already and ain’t nothin’ you can do that’ll make me talk. _Nothin’_. ‘Cept… y’know… takin’ that offer. Maybe.’ 

Roadhog growls – a deep, animalistic growl that reverberates through the small shack like a roll of thunder – and shoves the barrel directly into Junkrat’s gut. ‘Don’t tempt me.’ 

Instead of cowering and pleading, Junkrat lets loose with the same manic laugh Roadhog had thought one of the interrogating junkers was responsible for. ‘Don’t _tempt_ me,’ he mocks, in between cackles. ‘Weren’t ya fuckin’ listenin’? I ain’t givin’ ya _nothin'_ , Hog-boy – you can take that gun an’ sit on it f’r all I care. Only way you’re gettin’ anythin’ outta me is agreein’ to work f’ me, otherwise you ain’t gettin’ –’ 

Roadhog raises one gigantic steel-capped boot and brings it down on the kid’s right leg with as much power as he can muster. There’s an audible _snap_ of bone, then an even more audible _crunch_ as the rotten wood below splinters under the force of the blow, then Junkrat begins screaming louder than Roadhog thinks is physically possible. 

He lets the kid twist and flail uselessly for a few seconds before he whips the gun around and cracks the stock across Junkrat’s face. It’s not a solid blow, not a knockout blow, just something to bring him back to reality. Maybe put him in the mood for answering questions. 

All it does is break the screaming for a few seconds before it starts up again. Except now it’s less of an incoherent scream and more of a stream of expletives at screaming volume. 

Repeated beatings do not improve the situation. 

By the fourth blow there’s scream-volume laughter leaking in between curses. By the ninth, the curses have been dropped entirely for shrieking best described as hyena-like. By the fifteenth Roadhog’s starting to think that the stock’s going to break before Junkrat does. 

Somewhere around the mid-twenties he finally stops. He knows when he’s fighting a losing battle and this is clearly gonna get him nowhere. He’s beaten the kid around the face, the chest, the arms, the guts – even his newly swollen leg, which at least got some proper screams again for a while – but all he’s gotten in response is cursing and laughter. 

‘The fuck is _wrong_ with you?’ he grunts. 

Junkrat just laughs. The sound echoes through the shack, bouncing off the walls; a veritable symphony of insanity.

* * *

He spends the next few weeks in that dingy shack trying to get Junkrat to give up his prize. A few times he has to break off to take care of roving opportunists; once he even has to leave without tying the kid up first and spends the entire fight preparing to track him down again once he’s done. But when he returns Junkrat hasn’t moved from the pile of filthy rags he’s using as bedding. He’s just sitting there, grinning that pointy-toothed grin like Roadhog’s his best mate in the world, not having moved an inch since Roadhog snarled at him to stay put and sprinted outside. 

He doesn’t get it. It’s not that he’s too badly injured to get away (Roadhog’s been feeding him Hogdrogen between their sessions to make sure he doesn’t cark it; even that first broken leg’s pretty solid by now). It’s not that his gear is inaccessible (Roadhog went through it and, finding nothing but explosives and explosive components, left it safely on the far side of the shack where he can always see it). Junkrat apparently just doesn’t _want_ to leave. 

‘You’re insane,’ he grunts. 

‘The offer’s still good, ya know,’ Junkrat replies cheerily. 

Roadhog smacks him with the gun-stock but there’s no real effort behind the blow; it’s just a formality at this stage. Both of them know it’s not doing anything.

* * *

After a full three months Roadhog finally decides that it’s too dangerous to stay in the shack any longer. Having a private base is only good if it’s private and by now word has spread of their location; besides, his ammo supplies are getting dangerously low and the echo of Junkrat’s laughter in the shack is driving him certifiably insane. 

The kid still hasn’t given up his prize. Roadhog’s grudging respect has grown to include not only the kid’s survival skills but his thick-skulled determination. Stronger men than Junkrat have broken far sooner than this but Junkrat’s still laughing, still pushing his offer like they’ve only just met and for the life of him Roadhog can’t tell if it’s stubbornness, insanity or both. Unfortunately that means that Roadhog now has two equally distasteful options to choose from. 

He watches silently as Junkrat tinkers with one of his bombs, muttering to himself all the while, and thinks. 

Not about the bombs; he’s used to that by now. At first he outright refused to even consider letting the kid near his stash – he’d seen the devastation Junkrat could cause. After a few weeks he eventually acquiesced in the hopes it’d make Junkrat more amenable to discussing his find (under strict supervision, of course). After a few more weeks “under supervision” gradually became “not while I’m sleeping”, which gradually became “just don’t make them explode while I’m sleeping”, and all the while Junkrat just smiled and nodded and kept making his offer. 

Now that he thinks about it, not once in the last two months has Junkrat tried to attack him. He’s been hit with flailing limbs once or twice, sure, and caught in a small explosion once, but the limbs were while he was re-breaking the kid’s leg to set the bone properly and the explosion was an honest-to-god mistake in dim lighting, so he can’t really count those as attacks. The kid’s even helped with food a couple times, when Roadhog’s been too tired to properly bother skinning or gutting a catch. Sometimes he even offers to keep watch of an evening (not that Roadhog ever lets him). 

He’s still making that offer, too. Fifty percent of everything in exchange for being his bodyguard. No catches, no outs; a flat fifty percent of everything they earn, be it legitimate or otherwise. As far as deals go it’s probably one of the better ones he’s ever been offered but after he’s spent the last three months effectively torturing the kid it just doesn’t feel right to turn around and _guard_ him. 

Well… now that he thinks about it, he hasn’t actually laid a hand on Junkrat in at least the last month. Maybe longer, even – he re-broke the leg about a month into things and after that it just seemed counterproductive to do any real damage. He’s shoved the kid around a few times, clapped him over the back of the head when he’s too noisy, but that’s about it. 

Shit. Now that he thinks about it, what the fuck has he been _doing_ the last few months if not playing bodyguard? 

Junkrat looks up, concerned at the sudden pause in his breathing. ‘Roadie?’ 

He stands, silently, and begins packing his things. 

Junkrat drops his bomb (literally drops it, too; Roadhog winces but it doesn’t go off) and scuttles over, eyes wide. ‘We leavin’ or somethin’?’ 

Roadhog doesn’t answer. Neither option is good. He’s spent far too much time and effort to just walk away now with nothing but the prospect of spending the next god-knows-how-long playing bodyguard to a stinking, giggling lunatic is not particularly pleasant either. To make matters worse, there’s a deep gnawing sensation in his gut that tells him he isn’t gonna be able to just put a round through the kid’s head like he once could. Fuck. 

‘So you’re takin’ my offer after all, eh?’ Junkrat says. There’s no hint of smugness in his tone; no suggestion of _I win, you fuck_ or _suck shit, pig-man_. There’s nothing in his tone that says Roadhog’s spend the last three months alternately torturing him and patching him up and it’s somehow so much more disturbing than it would be if there were. 

He’s still more than a bit leery about Junkrat’s apparent forgiveness for the whole “weeks of torture” thing. The kid brushed it off like it was nothing, claiming it was exactly what he’d expected and he’d have done the same if the positions were switched, so as far as he was concerned it was water under the bridge. 

‘Ya even fixed m’ leg up good an’ proper!’ he’d claimed, shaking said leg at Roadhog like some smoking and smelly showgirl. ‘I ain’t gonna fault ya for breakin’ it first. ‘Sides, shows me what you’ll do to the idiots who try comin’ after us – like a try before I buy kinda deal!’ Then he’d laughed his piercing hyena laugh and gone back to painting a cross-eyed smiley face on a grenade. 

Roadhog finally looks up. Junkrat’s standing there, grin stretching from ear to ear, looking nothing but honestly happy and eager to get to work. Also insane. Definitely insane. That’s normal, though; he’d be more concerned if Junkrat _didn’t_ look insane. 

…“normal” and “concerned” in the same thought. About Junkrat.

‘C’mon, mate’ Junkrat says, lifting one bony hand towards him. ‘Fifty percent of somethin’s a helluva lot better ‘n a hundred percent of nothin’.’ 

Unfortunately, this time the kid’s one hundred percent right. 

With a deep growl Roadhog reaches out one of his own meaty fists and shakes. ‘Fifty percent,’ he agrees, in the most disgruntled tone he can manage. ‘On the condition that you _listen_ to me.’ 

Half an hour later, after hooking Junkrat off an out-of-control motorcycle and spending a solid five minutes talking him into sitting on the passenger seat instead of on Roadhog’s shoulders or in his lap once it becomes apparent he’s never learned to ride, they finally set off for Junkertown. 

Roadhog glances at the smoking ruins of the shack in the wing mirrors. He’s going to have to find a side-car sooner rather than later, he thinks; Junkrat’s completely unable to sit still for any length of time and it’s only thanks to their massive difference in weight that he’s kept the bike upright so far. Maybe he’ll pick up some aloe vera while he’s at it. God knows he’s gonna need it. 

Briefly, just for a moment, he wishes he’d wasted that shell when he had the chance. 

Then Junkrat lets out a loud whoop of glee, a formation of rocks on his right explodes into dust and rubble and the wind is filled with cackling laughter. A few seconds later the laughter’s joined by the shrieks and screams as the ambush Roadhog was too distracted planning to notice is ended before it’s even started. 

They’re the best part of a klik down the road before he realises he’s smirking underneath his mask. 

Maybe he’ll pick up some aloe vera for Junkrat, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt this week, unsurprisingly, was "A story entitled "A New Beginning"."
> 
> This week I realised just how prone I am to running over wordcount limits. However, I also realised that when pressed, I am actually capable of making significant cuts.


	2. A Point of Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life may be cheap in the outback, but some things are worth fighting for.   
> Sometimes.

Things just hadn’t been the same since Junkrat came back from the Omnium with his mysterious treasure. 

Oh, sure, he was still the same twitchy little bastard he was pre-Omnium but now that he had a target on his head, getting at the little runt meant going up against all the other opportunistic bastards who wanted their pound of flesh too. It was almost enough to make a career junker throw in the towel and pick on easier targets. Like elite private merc groups the overseas suits brought with them on trades. Or roving artillery columns. 

The junkers of the Humpybong Brawlers, however, were stubborn and not easily cowed. They’d been after Junkrat from about five minutes after they’d first laid eyes on him (which, coincidentally, was four minutes and forty-five seconds after they told him who they were and four minutes thirty seconds after he started laughing). They had the honour of their name to defend, dammit, and the Humpybong Brawlers were _not_ the kind to take insults lying down. They weren’t going to let this slide just because they now had to fight off half the damn country too. 

Sure, they hadn’t exactly had the best run of luck getting him _before_ he’d gone to the Omnium but they weren’t going to let something trivial like that stop them. 

A vote was held and the majority decided it: Junkrat was still going to pay. 

The first attack after the Omnium was an abject failure. Junkrat was still the same oblivious fool he was before but when he blundered into their ambush he had no less than sixteen angry bounty-hunters on his tail, at least half of whom were packing serious heat and all of whom were unwilling to back the hell down and let the Humpybong Brawlers exact their righteous vengeance. By the time the dust cleared from the ensuing battle royale Junkrat was long gone. 

No matter. The Humpybong Brawlers were stubborn and not easily cowed. They patched up their wounds, buried their dead and picked up the trail once more. 

The second attack ended much the same as the first. 

So did the third. 

The fourth wasn’t even worth _asking_ about. 

After the fifth ambush-turned-pit-fight the Brawlers called an emergency strategy meeting. Perhaps they needed to change their tactics. Junkrat was clearly a high-value target; they weren’t the only ones after him anymore and they couldn’t rely on sheer numbers to get the job done. If they wanted their revenge, they were going to have to be a bit smarter about things. 

Someone did try to suggest they just let it all go and head on home. They were promptly and violently convinced otherwise. 

For the sixth attempt they decided to wait until some other idiot tried to get at Junkrat, then spring their ambush once the initial wave of opportunists had been thinned out. In theory it was a cakewalk; their target would already be distracted and their opponents would already be bloodied while they would be organized and fresh. Compared to their earlier chaotic attempts this would be downright orderly. 

As it turned out, turning the battle royale into two wave attacks merely meant that Junkrat had fewer targets to focus on and was therefore _less_ distracted than before. It also meant that they ran smack-bang into the various mines, grenades and miscellaneous explosives he’d thrown around but not yet needed to set off. 

By the time the dust cleared, more than a few of the Brawlers were down some limbs and their target was once again nowhere to be seen. 

Clearly this whole “getting smarter” business was going to be a bit harder than they’d thought. 

The seventh attempt was much more carefully planned out. They waited until Junkrat wandered into a gorge, blocked off both ends and spent the intervening week tracking down and murdering any idiot trying to follow him. By the time he reached the far end they were confident that he was the only non-Brawler in the area and supremely confident that this time – without any interfering bodies to worry about, an insurmountable wall of rock in front of him and dozens of angry junkers behind him – they would have their revenge. 

Thirty seconds after encountering their roadblock Junkrat sat on one of his own mines and blew himself clean over it, leaving the Humpybong Brawlers to spend the next week backtracking down the gorge to escape from their own trap. 

This was proving far more difficult than anticipated. 

By now, a fair few of the younger Brawlers were starting to make noise about dropping their crusade of vengeance and heading back home. They were already down to under half their starting number and some of them were down to half their starting limbs; if they kept this up much longer there might not be anything left to defend the honour _of_. 

But the old guard refused to give up so easily. Junkrat was only one man, dammit; if word got out that the Humpybong Brawlers had given up and walked away from a lone man who had mocked them so viciously they’d never be able to show their faces in their hometown again. The pride of the Humpybong Brawlers was at stake here – no, the very pride of Humpybong itself. 

The motion was passed, the dissenters were beaten back into line and the Humpybong Brawlers began planning again in earnest. 

Lone man or not, Junkrat was clearly a dangerous foe and this time they weren’t going to take any chances. This time, they were going to break out the big guns from the get-go. This time they were going to hit him with an alpha strike… from a nuclear warhead. 

They tracked down the most vicious, terrifying and successful enforcer the outback had ever produced, gave him a sizable down payment and requested he bring them their target. Alive, but stripped of his weapons and perfectly readied for the ass-kicking of a lifetime. Double payment if he made sure he wasn’t followed by anyone else who was after Junkrat. 

After all, there was nothing in the junker code of honour about having to do the dirty work _yourself_. 

After a quiet couple of weeks milling about the agreed meeting point (a small, easily-defended oasis) their patience was finally rewarded: the enforcer returned, bringing with him a bound, unarmed and strangely uncombative Junkrat in the sidecar of his bike. This was it. No bounty hunters. No other gangs. No explosives, no mines, no grenade launchers. Just a securely trussed Junkrat and thirty-odd very eager Humpybong Brawlers. 

Shouts of “ain’t so tough now!” and “you’re gonna pay!” echoed through the area as the enforcer pulled Junkrat out of the sidecar. 

Vengeance was at hand and oh, _man_ did it feel good. 

But Junkrat didn’t appear to be terribly worried at his current predicament. In fact, he almost looked confused. 

As the enforcer stood him up (one massive hand kept tightly wrapped around the end of his chains), he stared at the shouting masses and cocked his head. ‘Ain’t for nothin’, but uh… who are you lot?’ 

The shouting ceased. Eyebrows were raised. Looks were exchanged. They’d kind of assumed that even a man as scatter-brained as Junkrat would remember earning the ire of a whole gang, especially one that had been actively trying to _kill him_ for the last several months. Then again he _did_ have most of the country after him now, so maybe he’d just gotten them confused with some other group he’d pissed off. Yeah. That was it. 

One of their number stepped forward. They were the Humpybong Brawlers, he reminded Junkrat proudly, and they were here to exact vengeance for the humiliation dished out all those months ago. They had hunted him for the last several months, all through the outback, and today was the day that Junkrat would pay for what he’d done. 

Well, he tried to. Junkrat’s laughter drowned out everything after “exact”. 

Evidently not only had he completely forgotten about them but he found “Humpybong” just as hilarious the second time around. 

Before the Brawlers could surge forwards to deliver a well-deserved beating the enforcer stepped forwards, placing himself between them and Junkrat. He was still owed the rest of his payment, he reminded them over the howls of laughter. They wouldn’t get Junkrat until he got his money. If he didn’t get his money, well, now _that_ would be a problem, and it would be an awful shame if he had to put his problem-solving skills to use, wouldn’t it? 

The Brawlers eyed off his gargantuan bulk, his impassive gas-masked stare and the blood-covered hook sitting comfortably at his side. They recalled the painful months spent trying and failing to catch the idiot bound and unarmed on the ground behind him (“ _Humpybong_! Who fuckin’ calls somethin’ _Humpybong_?”). They then thought about the last few weeks that had been spent booby-trapping the oasis to hell and back _precisely_ for this occasion. 

It was a very easy decision. 

Thirty seconds later it was clear it was also a phenomenally stupid decision, at least to those who had actually survived the blast that resulted from every last one of their carefully-placed booby traps going off aimed at _them_ instead of their intended targets. 

Those who hadn’t been deafened from the blast could still hear Junkrat’s laughter as he and Roadhog drove off, the sidecar now stuffed full of valuables looted from the Humpybong Brawlers’ campsite. 

It was at that moment, as they lay bloodied and defeated on the rubble-strewn ground of what had once been a well-stocked campsite, that the epiphany struck: there was a way out of this. The solution to their problem was as obvious as it was simple, almost sublime in its elegance and – most importantly – it would ensure that they never had to deal with Junkrat or his newfound partner ever again. 

‘All in favour of just being the Brawlers?’ 

The motion passed unopposed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's prompt was "A story from a villain's perspective". I'm still not 100% sure I can call nameless NPC-level characters "villains" but hey, it's written, and within the week too! I'm still not entirely sold on the idea of writing from a group's perspective versus single-character perspective (and still not entirely comfortable writing in a non-serious manner) but the idea *was* to challenge myself - so here we are.
> 
> I will admit it was kind of nice to be able to get a bit silly.
> 
> For the record, Humpybong is in fact a real place. It's near Redcliffe, in Queensland, Australia. The name is derived from an Aboriginal phrase meaning "empty houses" or "dead houses". It's quite a nice area, provided you can keep a straight face asking for directions.


	3. Once Upon A Midnight Dreary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all who wander are lost. Just most of them.

It’s his knee that annoys him the most, he’s come to realise. His hands don’t look all that much different and the stitches on his other leg (his flesh one – at least, the one that still _looks_ like it’s flesh) could be chalked up to a bad lab accident. There’s not a lot of mirrors where he is now, either, so he hasn’t see his face often enough to be weirded out by it. 

The knee, though… that’s a different story. 

He bends said knee experimentally. The bundle of straw rustles with every small movement of the leg – little _shh-shh_ scrapes when he’s walking, loud _krshh-krshh_ noises when he runs, sharp crunches when he jumps. He hasn’t quite yet figured out where it changes from straw to flesh (or _if_ it changes from straw flesh). He’s been preoccupied trying to figure out how to drown out or ignore the noise. See, he can ignore the sight of the straw at the end of his leg, but he can't ignore the noise. Not yet. If he still had his lab he could’ve whipped up something to block it out just fine, but out here in the middle of the forest… 

He scratches at his ear distractedly. Rather, he scratches where his ear used to be. It’s just smooth leather-like something ( _flesh, skin, me_ ) now, but it still itches sometimes. He’s not entirely sure why. The only thing he feels when his stitches rip is a pulling sensation and the only thing he feels when he loses straw is an odd sense of emptiness, yet he still has to scratch his itches and the stuff that looks like skin is downright ticklish. 

That’s probably the worst part of all of this, come to think of it: the few small scraps of humanity he has left are in such glaring contrast to his new inhumanity that they can’t be ignored. 

No, that’s bullshit. The worst part is the loss of his lab, the loss of his life’s work and the loss of his greatest accomplishment. Fuck ruminating about his humanity. 

The creature that was up until rather recently Doctor Junkenstein sighs. He slumps back against the tree behind him, straightening his leg out once more and ignoring the few bits of straw that break off in the process. Moping isn’t going to do anything for him now but truth be told he doesn’t really know what else to do. 

His castle is probably in ruins. His basement lab might be safe but there’s no way for him to get near it (he hasn’t yet felt pain in his new body but he’s not keen on seeing if fire changes that). He doesn’t even know if his monster is still alive – once the witch reappeared, he had slightly more immediate problems to worry about. Like escaping from a pitchfork- and torch-wielding mob while trying to work out why he was suddenly half his previous weight and no longer in his best white lab coat and purple stockings.

His mind tells him he's afraid. Without the accompanying clench of his stomach, or arm-hairs standing on end, or even just a little cold sweat it's so much harder to actually feel it. 

He pokes sulkily at the bundle of straw protruding from his right leg. He can’t even run proper tests on himself as a distraction. The middle of the forest has no tools, no benches, no flickering lights – it’s prohibitively _primitive_. If he just had his lab he could at least try to make a start on something. Analysis of the straw-flesh-stuff, for starters. Find out what’s making him tick, then see if he can reverse-engineer it back to something approaching how he used to be. He gave his monster life, after all; restoring his should be a piece of… 

Oh. Right. He’d needed the witch for that. _Shit._

...she hadn't said anything about revoking her prior assistance, though, had she? 

He sits bolt upright, wracking his mind for every last scrap of memory he still has of that confrontation. It's harder than he thinks it should be (he's entirely too preoccupied to catch the irony of that thought) – it's like trying to remember a word on the tip of his tongue, or trying to remember someone's name that he _knows_ he knows but just can't think of, except it's remembering things that happened only a couple hours ago. 

_Think, dammit, think,_ he tells himself angrily; his monster's life (and possibly his own) depends on it. Just because his head's now full of straw shouldn't mean his mind works slower! 

...full of straw. Like his leg. 

Before the bolt of inspiration fades he yanks a handful of the stuff from his knee. As before, it doesn't hurt, but that's not what he's interested in. He scrambles up from his spot against the tree and heads off through the forest once more – he can hear running water nearby and as much as he hates the idea of looking at himself now, he needs to be able to see what he's doing. 

After thirty hectic seconds stumbling through brambles and roots he flops to his knees at the side of a small creek. He actually pauses when he sees the creature staring up at him from the water; there's not a lot of mirrors out here after all and he's only seen his new face once or twice in passing. A third sighting merely confirms his earlier opinion: he's hideous now. 

His face is just a monochromatic leather-like mask; no more sharp jawline, no more rugged stubble, just plain old leather stuffed with hay. His eyes at least have _some_ kind of life in them though they're now set at odd angles and his mouth is held together by stitches. Like the rest of him, really. That kind of aesthetic looked just fine on his monster but on him – him like he is _now_ – it just looks cliché. Even a lab coat over the top wouldn't fix that. It might improve it slightly, but it wouldn't fix it. 

He shakes his head, tries to get his thoughts back on track. There'll be time for dissecting his appearance later. Right now he has a job to do. 

So before he can get distracted and before he can talk himself out of it, he opens his mouth as wide as he can and shoves the fistful of hay deep inside his own head. Doctor Junkenstein never shied away from action before and damned if being cursed to be some kind of living scarecrow is going to change that now. 

The effect is immediate. There's still no pain, just a sensation of uncomfortable fullness and something that feels like intense vertigo but as he removes his hand he feels... sharper. Not smarter, _sharper_. More focussed. More present. 

The scarecrow in the water now has a strange bulge on one side of his head. 

The creature that was once Doctor Junkenstein adds another fistful of straw on the opposite side and finds himself satisfied with the result. He can't risk taking too much more from his leg (hay bales aren't common in the forest and he needs to be able to walk) but it'll do for now. 

So. The witch, the confrontation, his monster. 

He was distracted, he remembers that now. The villagers and the travellers they roped in had broken through his castle gates and fought off everything he'd thrown at them. His monster was struggling to hold them off. _He_ was struggling to hold them off. Even the witch herself was struggling to hold them off – black magic was evidently a poor match against overwhelming numbers. 

She appeared to him as they were licking their wounds in the basement. Her hat was askew, her robes charred and torn, and she was demanding the payment she was owed. 

He remembers saying she could take anything she wanted as long as it wasn't his monster. He remembers that as clear as daylight. _Anything but him._

And he remembers her laughing, raising her staff, saying she wanted nothing to do with the beast. She would take her price from him – from Junkenstein, that is – and she wouldn't touch a hair on his beloved monster's head. 

His mind tells him he's excited. Without the accompanying rush of adrenaline it's still harder to actually feel it, but he _knows_ he's excited and that's good enough for now. 

Grinning widely, he rises to his feet (listing slightly to the left) and begins the long shamble back towards the castle. If his monster's anywhere it'll be there. He'll find his monster, he'll fix up his old lab and then he'll fix them both up again. He might not be Doctor Junkenstein anymore but damned if he's going to let that stop him now. 

His stitched mouth makes it impossible to whistle so instead he hums happily to himself to drown out the noise of his straw knee. 

The thought that perhaps a witch's curse isn't something he can fix in a lab never once crosses his straw-filled mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's prompt was "A story about a curse". Normally I headcanon Junkenstein and Hayseed as two separate entities but in this case the idea of Hayseed being a cursed Junkenstein was too fitting to pass up. 
> 
> Also: three weeks in a row, baby, YEAH!
> 
> On a side note, this week I learned I am pretty awful at titling things and even more awful at summaries.


	4. Miss You Most At Christmas Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not that he hates Christmas. It's just that he hates Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor warning for anxiety/PTSD-type stuff... and some very minor PDA.

As Roadhog tensely watches the street below the balcony of their shitty motel room, he realises that this was a mistake. 

Yeah, okay, so the trip to the coast couldn’t have been put off any longer. They were running low on rad pills, lower still on Hogdrogen and Rat had been grizzling about being overdue for the last month or so. Finding medical stuff in Junkertown was always a risky proposition; it was never guaranteed to be in stock and when it _was_ in stock it frequently sold out in short order, at prices that even a suit would wince at. Things weren’t that much cheaper on the coasts but the coasts are far more likely to have them available in the first place. Not being irradiated to all hell does tend to have positive effects on the “supply” portion of “supply and demand”. 

Unfortunately, the lack of radiation means the coasts are chock-full of civvies. Civvies with families. Civvies who still follow a lot of the pre-Omnium traditions, like wearing actual clothing in public and not bartering for the necessities of survival. Also Christmas. At least, Roadhog assumes Christmas is the reason for the tinsel and baubles and spray-on snow everywhere; he’s not real big on tracking time these days. If he’d known it was that time of year he’d have gone to Junkertown instead, price-gouging and availability be damned because at least there he wouldn’t have to see all these… these… 

A piercing squeal sounds from the sidewalk below. ‘Dad! Look, dad! Up there!’ 

He looks down reflexively, hand immediately reaching for his gun. He’s traded his gas-mask for a face-mask and his open leather vest for a loose t-shirt but it’s still possible – 

‘I see it, kiddo.’ The voice comes from a blond man almost directly below the balcony, who is holding the hand of a small child and pointing at the decorations on the building opposite them. ‘It’s an awfully big star, isn’t it?’ 

‘Yeah! It’s so shiny! Can we put one like that on our tree?’ 

The blond man laughs. ‘Maybe ask your mum first, hey?’ 

Roadhog moves his hand back to the railing. Just civvies out shopping. Fucking stupid goddamn civvies out shopping. Civvies with kids and families and Christmases and _ugh_. 

He’s not opposed to any of that shit on principle. Shit, he used to love it. But the key words there are _used to_. Like how he _used to_ have a life that wasn’t scrounging about irradiated wastes. 

He shakes his head, annoyed with the child and himself in equal measure but he doesn’t move away from his spot on the balcony railing. Junkrat hasn’t yet returned from wherever the fuck he’s gone (Roadhog’s half-hearted offer to come with had been emphatically refused) and the walls of this shitty motel are thin enough that he can still hear the carols from inside their room. Yeah, so that means they’re thin enough to hear any possible explosions from inside as well, but there’s a breeze out here. More than the creaky ceiling fan would produce anyway. The point is, he’s staying outside for legitimate reasons and definitely not just to wallow in his own melancholy bitterness. 

Christ, he even sounds like an old bastard these days. Kauri would’ve given him – 

He squelches the thought before it goes any further. The railing still creaks beneath his unconsciously tightened grip. 

They’ve been gone at least twenty years. That’s twenty years to forget them – to forget their faces, their names, their laughter – and twenty years to come to terms with it all. Their faces are blurry now, like he’s trying to see them through fingerprint-smeared glass; their names don’t come as easily as they once did. But they still come. Twenty years of determined survival washes away like dust in the rain as the ghosts of his past rise up once more. 

_‘Aye, Mako! C’mon; mum’s gonna pitch a fit if we don’t pick up the prawns before the shops close!’_

_‘But look at the star, Kauri! It’s so big!’_

A bolt of pain stabs through his chest and he’s suddenly acutely aware of how fast his heart is beating, acutely aware of just how deep and aching the agony reaches. His mouth is parched. The fresh air feels like fingernails across his skin, like knives across his eyeballs. His ears are filled with the noise of the street below; carols and laughter and talking and laughter and happiness and carols and laughter – 

He blindly shoves himself away from the balcony, towards the room. The noise follows. Somehow it sounds louder now. The carols become fragmented, the laughter grows ever higher-pitched and it’s all mocking him, the tendrils of sound winding their way deep into his soul and pulling him bodily apart. 

It’s too much. It burns so deeply, so harshly; it’s the Omnium all over again, searing blue-white heat that he can feel in his bones. It’s the burning heat that steals the breath from his lungs. It’s the rush of heat that leaves shadows where the bodies fall. It’s the blinding, world-changing heat that _he_ gave the orders for and _he_ helped create and it’s twenty goddamn fucking years of pretending he can’t see their faces when he sleeps and it’s – 

– it’s the familiar scent of sweat-drenched leather clapped over his face, a barrier between him and the heat and it’s – 

– it’s knowing his older brother took his place on the bomb team because _yeah, you’re bigger now, but I’m still the oldest an’ mum’d kill me if I let you do this when I could_ , smiling and ruffling his hair even though he’s in his twenties now, Kauri, for god’s sake and it’s – 

– it’s the rush of Hogdrogen; cool, dry Hogdrogen, filling his lungs and slowing his heartbeat and it’s – 

– it’s watching the mushroom cloud rise and hearing the radio fall silent and only being able to think of how it looked just like the time Mum left the lid down on the barbeque with the gas running and then tried to light it and it’s – 

– it’s – 

– it’s silence. 

It’s painful, empty, blessed silence. 

Roadhog takes a deep, shuddering breath. His hands are pressed up against his mask (his real mask, not that flimsy papery shit), holding it against his face as the Hogdrogen canister hangs limply off the filter. He’s somehow made it to the bed and he’s hunched over like an old man but he’s stable; he’s solid and stable and okay; he’s okay. 

He’s okay. 

Somehow. 

Fuck Christmas. 

Somewhere between a few minutes and forever later, before he’s had the chance to get his mask on properly or even wipe the sweat from his brow, the room’s singular door slams open. He flinches (actually _flinches_ ; fuck, is he a greenhorn again?) but doesn’t look over. Cops knock first. He knows that much. 

‘Shit, the air here really that bad?’ Junkrat asks, kicking the door shut behind him. Then a note of worry enters his voice: ‘Roadie. You okay, mate?’ 

He manages to grunt assent. 

‘Ya don’t look it.’ 

‘I’m _fine_ ,’ he says. It comes out a bit harsher than he planned it but he’s in no state to care much. Instead he detaches the canister, chucks it to the ground and begins to put his mask on properly. Rat’s back; he’s not going out to the balcony again anytime soon and that paper shit doesn’t cover his eyes. 

‘If ya say so, mate,’ Rat says warily, dumping a double armful of bags on the room’s sole table. Something that feels a bit like guilt worms its way through Roadhog’s gut. ‘Anyhoo – got some grub an’ grog for us. Nothin’ fancy but it’ll do. Reckon we’ll ‘ave that just before we head out tonight.’ 

He closes his eyes wearily. Out? Again? He’s risked the crowds twice since arriving in Sydney and neither attempt ended well; a third time (especially after the last five minutes) is just begging for trouble. ‘Don’t reckon I’ll be up for it.’  
‘Aww, Hoggy, where’s ya Christmas spirit?’ 

‘No.’ 

‘You’re comin’. Boss’s orders.’ 

Fucking _shit_. 

His shoulders slump even further. That agreement should be null and void by now (Rat knows he’s not going anywhere and he knows he doesn’t need fifty percent to keep him here) but every now and then Rat just _has_ to drag him into something with the wording of that goddamn deal and shit, and fuck, and – 

A thin, bony hand grasps his shoulder, pulling him back to the present. ‘Hey. Roadie. It’s okay, mate. We’ll get plenty of shut-eye first.’ He pauses, thinking, then giggles: ‘Don’t worry – we ain’t goin’ near the shops or nothin’ like that. It’ll be right. Trust me.’ 

He wants to say that trust isn’t the problem but that would mean a conversation he’s probably not up for right now. He wants to put his foot down, to stay in this shitty motel room until they leave Sydney for good but that would mean an argument he’s _definitely_ not up for right now. He’s stressed. He’s bone-weary and bitter. So he does the only thing he can think of to do, and sighs in resignation. ‘If you say so, boss.’ 

Rat squeezes his shoulder and plants a fleeting kiss on the top of his mask. ‘So get some rest while ya can,’ he says, gently pushing Hog’s shoulder with a suspiciously wide grin on his face. ‘Gonna need it later.’ 

If it was any other day he’d pry until he got some definitive answers. Junkrat’s surprises tend to be much like Junkrat himself: loud, dangerous and prone to misfire spectacularly. Today, however, Roadhog finds that he simply can’t bring himself to give a fuck. He doesn’t have a say in it either way. 

So with a soft grunt of compliance he lets himself be “pushed” back onto the bed. In a matter of moments Junkrat’s sprawled over his stomach. By the time he’s got himself settled (one arm over Rat’s waist, the other resting in the middle of his back) Rat’s already snoring gently – whatever he did while he was out clearly took some serious energy. 

Despite how tired he feels, Roadhog doesn’t fall asleep quite so easily. He can still hear the carols in the air.

* * *

‘Almost there!’ Rat says, pulling at his hand like an overgrown child. ‘C’mon, Hoggy, almost there!’ 

He sighs wearily, his free hand resting on the stock of his gun as he slowly follows in Rat’s footsteps. Earlier today he’d thought coming to the coast was a mistake; now, blindfolded and being dragged towards god-knows-what, he’s completely convinced of the fact. He’s tired, he can still hear carols in the distance and he wants nothing more than to leave the city behind. Instead he’s being led blindly towards Rat’s “surprise”. 

At least he gets to wear his mask tonight. Thank fuck for small mercies. 

Rat lets go of his hand and he halts immediately. He waits patiently as Rat scrabbles with the scrap of fabric wrapped around his head (“Who fuckin’ tied this many knots in it?” “You.” “…oh.”). Eventually, Rat loses patience and simply tears it off, revealing… well. About the last thing he’d expected. 

‘Surprise!’ Rat says, almost bouncing out of his shoe. 

‘It’s closed,’ he says, eyeing off the cavernous mouth of Luna Park. Christ – he thought that thing looked creepy enough in the day but it’s a million times worse at night, with only half of its lights on and the long shadows under its eyes. _This_ is Rat’s surprise? An empty theme park? 

‘No _shit_ it’s closed. What, ya wanted me to drag ya here when there’s people around? Nah. That ain’t how you’re gonna enjoy y’self!’ 

He wants him to _enjoy_ himself. On Christmas eve, at an empty theme park. Roadhog sighs. ‘You know the jacks’ll come once we get in.’ 

‘An’ _that_ is where part two of ya present comes in!’ Rat digs around in his pack for a few moments before pulling out a small box with a flourish. He shoves it eagerly into Roadhog’s hands. ‘C’mon – open it up!’ 

His stomach twists uncomfortably. The box is covered in mismatched scraps of festive paper, clearly discarded offcuts of larger pieces; instead of a bow there’s one of Rat’s signature cross-eyed smiley faces scribbled in black marker. It’s not something he’d have ever found under his family tree but it’s more than enough to give him pause. 

He’s jolted out of his reverie as Rat jumps up on his back, wrapping a pair of lanky arms around his neck. ‘C’mon, c’mon! We ain’t got all night!’ 

Hog snorts. But he acquiesces all the same because Rat’s right – they don’t have all night. 

Rat hums into the back of his neck as Hog tears through the paper, tapping his fingers excitedly. He’d be bouncing if he was on the ground. 

When Hog finally reaches the lid of the box the humming becomes interspersed with titters and giggles and another aching wave of melancholy nostalgia washes over him. For a brief moment the dark carpark fades away, replaced with patchy carpet, hazy lights and smiling, joyous faces that blur together like the ghosts of memories they are. Then before he knows it he’s back in reality again, with Rat hanging halfway over his shoulders in excitement and a patchwork shoebox with the lid half off in his hands.  
He grips the box a little tighter. With Rat’s rambling encouragement in his ears, he rips the lid clear entirely. Inside is one of Rat’s detonators… only bigger. 

He looks towards Rat, confused. They’re… blowing up Luna Park? 

Rat grins widely. ‘ _That_ , Hoggy-boy, is the detonator for – shit, six, maybe seven, I don’t remember – caches o’ bombs that I set up ‘round the city. Gonna be awful hard for the jacks to come stop our fun when they’re busy dealin’ with mayhem o’ _that_ magnitude, roight?’ 

‘You’re kidding.’ 

‘I never kid!’ He pauses, thinking, then: ‘Well, at least where bombs are involved. Maybe sometimes when food’s involved, or…’ 

Hog lifts up the detonator as Rat rambles on. Despite everything he can feel a smile beginning to form beneath his mask and something warm beginning to pool in his gut. Rather than speak he grabs Rat’s hand (the flesh one, not the metal one) and wraps it around the detonator before covering both in his own mammoth grip. ‘I’ll hook ‘em?’ he prompts. 

Rat’s grin is the widest he’s ever seen it. ‘An’ _we’ll_ cook ‘em.’ 

They press the trigger together. There’s a silent moment that lasts an eternity, where nothing has changed and everything is as it should be – and then the city erupts into chaos as Junkrat’s caches explode, filling the night sky with roaring wind and flames. 

Rat rubs his cheek against Hog’s mask. ‘Merry Christmas, Roadie.’ Then, because some things never change: ‘Now c’mon, there’s a whole park we gotta get through before they finish dealin’ with that shit!’ 

And because some things never change, Hog obediently strides forwards into the park, with Rat still wrapped around his shoulders and a smile the size of Lake Eyre during the rains underneath his mask.

* * *

When he looks back on it, the hours spent in Luna Park feel like a dream. There they are, squabbling over the proper way to start up one of the coasters (“I keep tellin’ ya, ya turn the key an’ _then_ hit the button!” “The button marked emergency stop? _That_ button?”). Mere moments later they’re in sideshow alley and competing to see who can clear the duck-shooting galleries first (Rat claims he wins because his ducks were downed first, along with the booth and everything else in a ten-metre radius of his tyre’s explosion; Roadhog claims he wins because he actually shot his ducks like they were _meant_ to, even if he used his scrap-gun instead of the provided airsoft rifle. None of the booths survive the competition). Later still they’re in the food court where Rat finds a fairy-floss cart and convinces Roadhog to dip his prosthetic into it instead of one of the plastic sticks, creating a ball of pink fluff bigger than his RIP-tire and making walking impossible – Roadhog slings him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, legs to the front, and Rat’s laughing as he pounds Hog’s back because _c’mon, ya big tub, you’re hoggin’ it all to y’self an’ it’s my damn leg_ – 

The beautiful chaos doesn’t later forever, of course. 

When the sirens finally grow too close to be ignored they head for the Ferris wheel. Hog lights the carts up while Rat bypasses the speed limiter and the jacks arrive just in time for the screaming, flaming wheel of destruction to careen off its frame and begin tearing through the park. 

The two junkers pause in the shadows of the park entrance, admiring their efforts. As the last of the jacks and park guards vanish into the park proper Hog pulls Rat away from the carnage. There’s a hover-convertible one of the off-duty ring-ins brought, perfect for fitting a frame his size and there won’t be better opportunities for uninterrupted hot-wiring than this. Destruction might be beautiful but so is making a clean getaway. 

As Rat scrabbles below the wheel (even without the roof Roadhog’s too big to comfortably get under there to hot-wire it) he twists around one last time, trying to sear the image into his mind forever. The burning wheel careening across the park, the spark-filled smoke wafting across the horizon, the shouts and the screams and the sirens and the chaos – 

‘Roadie!’ 

He looks back to Rat, who gives him a broad smile, tossing his head towards the side of the car. ‘I’ll drive, mate. Jus’ hang on tight.’ There’s something hiding beneath his usual easy grin; a softness around the corners of his eyes, an understanding behind the carefree glint, and in that moment Hog realises exactly why he brought them out to Luna Park tonight. 

Rat’s loud, dangerous and prone to misfiring spectacularly but he’s a goddamn genius when he puts his mind to it and Hog fucking loves him for it. 

He lifts his mask briefly, just long enough to plant a passionate kiss on Rat’s lips in wordless thanks and then he swings his bulk onto the side of the car. The moment he’s up Rat floors it. The car fishtails wildly out of the park, leaving a cloud of bulldust in their wake. 

Roadhog leans into the wind, grinning beneath his mask. For the first time since arriving in Sydney he feels… unburdened. Free. 

It won’t last. Moments like this never last. He’ll come crashing back to earth sooner or later, he knows it; the ghosts of his lost life can’t be put to rest as easily as this. But right here and now he doesn’t need it to last. Right here and now it’s two in the morning on Christmas Eve, he’s hanging dangerously out of a stolen car with his partner in everything behind the wheel, the city is filled with smoke and mayhem and he feels like he could take on the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little late, yes, but better late than never (and tbf - holidays do get hectic). Unsurprisingly, this week's prompt was "a story set at Christmas". Y'all have egreed to thank for this story not being pure anxiety and stress - he very kindly helped me gather "reference material" during a procrastination break and the result was Roadrat smooches instead of the emotional retrospective I was halfway to writing instead. Writing fluffy stuff was surprisingly more fun than I remembered... I might have to do some more of that. I could definitely do with the practice.


	5. Down By The Banks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's an easy job. In, out and done before the day's over. At least... that was the plan.

Fuckin’ _Christ_ , this mud’s heavy. Why the fuck is he out here again? 

Oh. Right. Because he’s actually getting paid to blow something up. 

Jamison Fawkes still scowls as he leans against a tree to pull his prosthetic leg clear of yet another deeper-than-expected mudhole. Destruction for money sure is nice and all but after spending most of the day and several hours of the night slogging through this marshy mess, he’s sorely regretting taking what was sold to him as an easy job. 

‘Bloody suits,’ he mutters as he flops on the ground and begins to rummage through his pack. ‘“It’s the dry season” – my fuckin’ _arse_ it’s the dry season. Only way this’d be wetter is if it was a lake. Y’ hear that? You should be a _lake_!’ He shakes his fist futilely at the muddy billabong in front of him. 

Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t respond. 

Also unsurprisingly, Jamie doesn’t care. 

Still muttering curses under his breath he returns to the actual reason he’s in the swamp: setting up charges to clear out a few groves of trees. He has the vague idea that there was some mention of “ecological importance” and “impractical for saws” in the meeting yesterday but truth be told he couldn’t care less. He’s a demolitions expert, not a suit or some eco-engineer; once he has the location and dollar value he’s got all the information he needs. 

Well – he _thought_ he had all the information he needed. He heard twenty grand to blow the shit out of some trees in some swamp and figured that was that. Unfortunately “some trees” turned out to be a veritable forest of Moreton Bay figs (none of them under fifteen metres in height, several closer to forty) and “some swamp” turned out to be hectares upon hectares of thick, marshy peatland that pulls his fucking leg off if he’s not careful and is well out of range for his GPS to function. 

The net result is that what should have been a six-hour in-and-out job is currently in its eighteenth hour and he’s still got three more caches to rig before he can think about hitting the primary detonator and hauling ass back to the city. Maybe two if he overcharges this one. Hmm. That’s an idea. Overcharge this one and bury it deep, use the shockwaves through the billabong to take out the figs on the far side instead of another cache… yeah, that could work. 

The whine of a mosquito fills his ears and he audibly growls in annoyance. The full moon’s doing a decent job of lighting the area around him but it’s useless as far as fine-tuning explosive compounds is concerned, so he’s jammed his torch into his mouth; both his hands are already occupied with pastes, tapes and powders. There’s nothing he can do about the mosquito right now and it’s just one more thing to piss him off. 

_Schlerr-uff. Schlerr-uff._

Jamie looks up with a frown, mosquito temporarily forgotten. There it is again – the weird-ass huffing sound that he’s been hearing on and off for the last few hours. It kinda sounds like a feral pig rooting for grubs, if the pig was rooting for grubs on the bottom of the billabong. It’s a wet sound, a heavy sound, interspersed with the odd bubbling glop; now that he’s listening properly it actually sounds more like something dying in a puddle of mud. Yeah, that’s probably it. Some unlucky critter gasping its last breaths in this godforsaken marsh. 

Making a mental note to end the poor bastard’s suffering if it’s still going after he’s done, Jamie returns his attention to the job on hand. Setting explosives in a wet environment is a pain in the arse at the best of times, never mind when it’s night as well; he doesn’t need to be any more distracted. 

The mosquito’s whine grows louder again. 

Fuckin’ Christ. This day couldn’t get any worse if it tried. 

He tries to concentrate on his job; really, he does. But the whine of the mosquito is too high-pitched to be written off as his tinnitus and the odd huffing noise is starting to sound far more frequently. Soon they’re practically all he can hear – a swamp symphony performed just for him, needling and pushing with the whining and the huffing and – 

_Schlerr-uff. Schlerr-uff._

_Bzzzzzzzzt._

_Schlerr-uff. Schlerr-uff._

_Bzzzzzz –_

‘Fuck _off_!’ he finally shrieks, dropping the torch in his lap along with a mostly-finished detonator in favour of slapping wildly at the one annoyance he can reach. ‘Can’t ya see I’m fuckin’ – fuckin’… ah…’ 

…has that ominously-shaped dark patch in the billabong always been there? 

A small trail of bubbles rises from the end closest to him. It’s a good three metres or so away from the bank he’s sitting on but it’s still far too close for his liking – his peg leg’s a testament to just how fast crocs can move when they feel like it and the saltie that took _that_ lump out of him was plenty further away than this one is. Assuming that bubbling mass of darkness is actually a croc, of course. 

The mosquito whines again but he doesn’t dare to look away from the dark patch in the water. It’s hard to tell its shape in the moonlight but he’s pretty sure it’s long enough to be a croc. Wide enough to be one, too. To make matters worse he knows the system here’s fresh water rather than salt, meaning the bastard’s either a gigantic freak of nature or an old, clever freshie who’s grown to that size through decades of coming out on top. 

Or, y’know, it’s just a log that he missed the first time round. Somehow he doubts it. 

He exhales slowly, trying to remain as still as possible. A plan – he needs a plan. If it is a croc he’s not gonna be able to outrun it on the ground, not in this muck, which means he needs height. He’ll have to go for the tree. But that means his gear’s gonna be right in the chomping zone and he doesn’t fancy his chances of driving the thing off without it. So then he needs to grab his pack _and_ bolt up the tree. Can he do that? Can he scramble up a tree in the dark with one hand and a peg leg? More importantly, can he scramble up _this_ tree in the dark with one hand and a peg leg? Does it have branches? Does it have bark knobs? How high’s he gonna have to jump to grab something? 

Shit. He’s gonna have to look. 

Carefully, more worried about the possible croc than the explosives in his lap, he starts feeling around for the torch. He can see a little bit of light out the corner of his eye; between that and the distinctive _clink_ of metal fingers on metal casing he manages to get it pointed at the tree. Well – he’s pretty sure he has, anyway. Now he’s just got to look. 

It’ll be fine. Just a quick glance. One-two and done. Child’s play. And a-one, and a- _two_ – 

The last thing he sees before his head’s turned too far is ripples spreading across the surface of the billabong. 

Oh. _Fuck._

Something wet and heavy slams into his stomach and he ragdolls backwards, mouth open and hands raised ready to fight it off. But before he can so much as shout his head cracks against the trunk of the tree and in an instant, his world is black.

* * *

He feels sick. That’s the first thing he notices: he feels sick. Not that he’s alive, or that the back of his head still hurts like the dickens, but that he feels sick. Probably something to do with how much the boat’s moving; he’s never been great with sea-sickness. Being laid on his stomach over a damp and furry deck-chair isn’t helping matters either. And whose bloody idea was it to tie his arms behind his back? The rope’s all sticky and slimy, too, like river-weed or… or… 

_Schlerr-uff. Schlerr-uff._

It’s that huffing again, but it’s coming from beneath him. Must be a pretty decent sized boat to fit whatever the shit that is in the – 

Wait. _Again_? 

His memories slowly fade through the haze that is his mind. The swamp, the cache, the billabong, the mosquito, the croc… that’s right; the croc and the charge and the tree and yes, he remembers now. Christ. No wonder his head hurts. 

…wait a sec. He was charged by a croc in the middle of a swamp with nobody else around for miles. Why does _only_ his head hurt? More to the point, why is he still alive? And how in the hell did he end up on a boat with his arms tied behind his back? 

The gentle swaying motions of the “deck chair” continue beneath him, in time with the thick, moist sounds of feet squelching through swamp-mud. A horse, then? That’d make more sense than a boat – plus it would explain the fur rubbing against his stomach. It doesn’t explain anything else, mind you, but something’s better than nothing, right? 

A little less worried but no less confused, Jamie finally opens his eyes. 

The first thing he sees is mud – thick, sticky swamp mud starting about a metre below the horse’s stomach. The second is a furred and webbed paw about the size of his own head, very clearly connected to the leg of the horse he’s slung over, which is tipped by four gigantic razor-sharp talons that slice through the mud like a hot knife through butter. 

…how fucking hard did he hit his head? 

Closing and re-opening his eyes doesn’t turn the claws to a hoof. Nor does shaking his head. Biting his tongue just makes it bleed; holding his breath almost makes him pass out. Absolutely nothing he does changes the fact that the ( _thick, slimy, muscular, catlike_ ) horse’s leg ends in that huge clawed paw. 

After considering the circumstances, Jamie does perhaps the only thing he can do. 

He opens his mouth and begins screaming as loudly as humanly possible. 

‘PUT ME _DOWN_ , YA FUCKIN’ BASTARD! LET ME GO! _LET ME GO_!’ He punctuates his demands with hefty kicks to the thing’s flank, bucking his whole body like a fish out of water in a frantic attempt to throw himself off. ‘PUT ME DOWN! FUCK OFF! PUT ME DOWN _AN’_ FUCK OFF!’ 

Amazingly, the creature stops walking. 

The small bubble of hope swelling in Jamie’s chest is promptly burst when another furry clawed paw reaches back, hooks the ropes around his arms and forcefully drags him back to a more balanced position. A deep growl rumbles up from below him. It doesn’t sound angry or scared or even surprised – it sounds cautious. A warning, maybe. 

Jamie’s never been very good at listening to warnings. He kicks all the harder. ‘FUCK! YOU! FUCK! OFF! PUT – ME –’ 

The claws contract a little, just enough to threaten to break his skin. Not much of a threat, not really, except for the fact that he can feel the claws on both sides of his chest at the same time… and the thing isn’t even stretching itself. 

Jamie’s no idiot. He’s spent years travelling the outback and he’s had more than one close run-in with the wildlife. Yeah, okay, so this – _thing_ is very definitely smarter than the average croc or ‘roo but it’s still just an animal; it works off animal logic. It’s bigger and has him overpowered, therefore it’s not threatened by him. He’s not going to be able to startle it into dropping him or fleeing. Therefore, Plan B. 

He stops kicking. 

As expected, the monster keeps the paw on him for a little bit longer, but eventually – apparently satisfied that he’s going to remain still – it makes that weird _schlerr-uff_ noise and resumes its leisurely walk. 

Jamie gives it the better part of ten seconds before he takes a deep breath and begins yelling again. Well, not _quite_ yelling. Very loud calling. Very loud calling with as little anger or fear in his tone as possible. He doesn’t want to make it think he’s trying to threaten it but like fuck is he just going to lie here and let it carry him off. ‘Oi! Someone! Anyone! I’m bein’ kidnapped by some fuckin’ bog monster an’ –’ 

It growls again. This one’s a little more annoyed. 

‘– yeah, yeah; I hear ya, mate, it’s all good,’ he says, tone still light and easy like it’s an overgrown dingo, ‘I’m just callin’ for help, no need to worry. Oi! Anyone! Follow me fuckin’ voice an’ bring a goddamn big gun –’ 

This time, it stops walking and twists back over its shoulder to stare at him coldly from a lipless, not-quite-feline muzzle. Its eyes look almost dead – they’re just flat and empty, two bottomless black holes in its face. Whatever sunlight makes it through the trees just disappears into the darkness like it never was. Then its mouth opens: ‘Shut. Uh.’ 

Oh fucking Christ, it speaks. 

‘Ya fuckin’ _talk_? What the fuck are ya, ya piece of shit –’ 

‘Shut. _Uh_.’ 

‘The fuck d’ya mean, shut uh? Are ya tryin’ to tell me to –’ 

The monster jerks, dumping him unceremoniously on the ground and twists to shove its maw right up against his nose. The aura of death is now overwhelming; its breath is heavy and warm, a harsh contrast to the cold clamminess of its leathery, slime-covered skin. Each of its nostrils is the size of one of Jamie’s eyes. When it opens its mouth, exposing yellowed fangs three-quarters the size of his head, he’s hit with the sudden understanding of exactly how _big_ the thing is and an even better understanding of exactly how _dead_ he is. 

‘…ya meant for me to shut up, din’cha?’ he says weakly. ‘Ah – righty-ho, I can do that mate, no problem; I’ll shut up good and proper, won’t even know I’m here –’ 

The monster growls. The sound strikes him like he’s been physically hit, reverberating through his chest and right down through his bones. 

Right. Shutting up. He clamps his mouth shut almost hard enough to crack his molars and nods frantically, fast enough it feels his head’s gonna fall off. Fucking shitting _god_ he’s dead, he’s so dead – 

The top of the monster’s mouth pulls back even further, exposing the blackened gums at the base of the fangs. 

He screws his eyes shut and hopes like hell it’ll be over quick. 

Instead, though, the creature huffs. Moist, rotten air blows over his face. Then there’s the sound of clawed feet shuffling in the marsh-mud and he’s picked up again, thrown back over the monster’s flank and it resumes its leisurely plodding. 

He lets go of the breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. Not dead yet, somehow. Holy fuck. 

But the thing _speaks_. Worse, it understands what he’s saying, and if he was screwed before then he’s extra-screwed now. Being taken captive by some huge-ass monster with two feet and maybe three hundred kilos over him is one thing. Being taken captive by some huge-ass monster with two feet and maybe three hundred kilos over him that thinks and speaks and _understands what he’s saying_ is something else entirely. 

Christ, it’s probably taking him back to a nest or something, isn’t it? It’s probably got a whole nest of smaller things just like it that it’s gonna feed him to, slowly, piece by piece. Maybe it’s even gonna fatten him up first just to prolong the torture (it’s smart enough to restrain him, it’s gotta be smart enough to get more meat on his bones). Oh _shit_ , what if it’s kidnapped him to look after its babies or something? What if this thing reproduces like the thing from Alien and he’s gonna be pumped full of eggs until one of the fuckers bursts out his chest? 

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , this is bad. Why the fuck did he ever take this job? He could’ve been sitting sweet and comfy in the desert – the dry, empty desert, with no marshes and no trees and none of this clingy mud shit and _definitely_ no fucking smart talking monsters waiting to ambush him – but instead he’s here. He’s slung over the back of something out of his nightmares, hog-tied good and proper with all his gear left rotting fuck-knows where, being taken off to his death… and all for twenty grand. Twenty fuckin’ grand. Christ. 

Maybe once the monster puts him down he can try to escape. Maybe he can find his way back to his gear, mount an offence somehow – yeah, that could work. He’ll be like Hansel and Gretel and follow the bastard’s footprints back to his gear. He’s just gotta wait for the right moment. It’ll be right. He’ll be right. He’ll be – 

He twists to glance behind them and his smile dies on his lips. Where the beast steps the footprints only remain for a few seconds before the mud closes over on itself, leaving only pristine wetness shining under the moonlight between groves of identical trees.

Jamie slumps limply over the monster’s back. Before he can stop it, a bitter laugh escapes his lips. Truth be told he doesn’t even try. He’s so utterly and completely fucked that there’s nothing else he can do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't deny it: I have a soft spot for monster AUs. This week's prompt was "a story set at a full moon" and what better way to find a new monster that under a full moon? I'm tentatively calling this the start of the Bunyip AU - I'm definitely planning to revisit it at some point, either during this challenge or separately, and while he hasn't been identified as such yet in-universe, this iteration of Mako is very much a bunyip. I toyed with the idea of Jamie as the bunyip instead but that turned into a very different AU that might be coming up a bit down the line.


	6. The Second Mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Actions have consequences; it's the most basic law of the universe. Sometimes, though, those consequences reach a little further than anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for blood/gore/injury/etc... do I still need to warn for bad language? I feel like that's kind of a given by now. 
> 
> Set in the same timeline as Week 1 (A New Beginning) and Week 4 (Miss You Most At Christmastime), after the former and well before the latter.

Out of all the insults he’s heard over the years, “fat” is the one that Roadhog’s heard the most. Probably because it’s the most obvious. Also because it’s true. But because it’s true it’s hardly an insult, at least as far as he’s concerned, so it’s been years since he ever paid it any mind. Calling him fat is like calling a jack corrupt or calling a suit a soulless waste of air – obvious, honest and more than a little cliché. These days he can’t be arsed to take offence to something so lazy and, well, not-insulting. 

Unfortunately, he has yet to explain this to his new boss even though they’ve been on the road for the better part of four months now. Even more unfortunately Junkrat appears to take insults towards Roadhog’s weight about as well as he takes orders from Roadhog. That is to say: poorly. 

As he hunkers behind a concrete wall that’s rapidly disintegrating under a hail of gunfire, Roadhog wishes he’d volunteered to do the talking for once. 

‘Let me at ‘em!’ Junkrat yells, straining futilely against Roadhog’s grip. ‘I’m gonna kill ‘em, I’m gonna tear their fuckin’ heads clean outta their skulls –’ 

His fury would almost be heartwarming if it didn’t mean Roadhog now has to get them out of here. 

Doing his best to ignore Junkrat’s spluttered threats, Roadhog tries to get some sort of handle on the situation. There’s at least six men with semi-automatic weapons firing at the wall in front of them, probably another four to eight (maybe more) circling around the back of the run-down parking lot they’re sheltering in, and his only backup is the lunatic who kickstarted the whole confrontation by blowing the head off a man who pointed out that Roadhog was a bit on the larger side. One against ten-to-fourteen (maybe more). One and a half if Junkrat can calm down long enough to not be a liability. Normally the kid’s fantastic in a fight but when he’s like this – blinded by misplaced anger, spittle flying everywhere – he’s worse than useless. 

‘– gonna rip off their assholes an’ make ‘em wear ‘em like fuckin’ _monocles_ –’ 

Christ. It’s like trying to stop a toddler shoving a fork in a power outlet, except the toddler’s six and a half feet tall and covered in explosives. And in its twenties. And is his ostensible boss. 

He closes his eyes and exhales, focusing on the present as best he can. He’ll deal with the fat thing later. Right now, he has a job to do, and if he wants there to _be_ a later then he’s gonna have to do it well. 

Inhale. Exhale. Shut out the noise. Shut out the heat. He is the physical manifestation of danger, he is death incarnate; he is a one-man apocalypse and he has a god-damn-mother-fucking job to do. 

Roadhog opens his eyes. Were anyone to see them, they’d see only liquid steel. 

He jerks the kid’s arm, hard, ignoring the squawk of surprise as Junkrat collides with the floor. ‘Stay here,’ he snarls, equal parts formality as instruction. If Junkrat wants to get up he’ll get up, but he can’t say he didn’t try. ‘I’ll be back.’ Then without waiting for an answer he’s on the move. 

He might be fat but he sure as hell ain’t slow. 

His hook rips through the air like a razor blade, sending three of the gunners flying as their legs are torn from underneath them. The barrels of his shotgun empty in a one-two punch that kills one man and leaves another clutching at his guts, screaming for a mother who’s probably long dead. By the time the last slow learner has realized something’s wrong it’s too late, far too late and the hook tears his throat out on the whip-round. 

He’s midway through crushing the neck of the third downed gunner when he hears the gunfire start up again. _Shit_ ; the men around the back. Of fucking _course_ they’d come through sooner than anticipated. Right – he’s got to get Rat out of the way first, then probably open up with the shotty (he recalls concrete pillars and those would definitely fuck with the hook, just as much as they’d fuck with Rat’s explosives) – 

‘ _FIRE IN THE HOLE_!’ 

– and all of a sudden his blood’s gone cold and he’s dropping the dead bastard in his hands but it’s too late, far too late, and all he knows disappears into a deafening roar and searing, heat-filled force.

* * *

Either thirty seconds or half an hour later the world fades back into focus and he can see further than the end of his mask again. His ears are still ringing; everything sounds like it’s happening from half a k down the track. But he’s alive, and he’s breathing, and holy fucking _shit_ he’s going to tear that idiot in half – 

Well, he _was_ , until he turns and sees the state of the parking lot. 

What was once four-and-a-bit levels of concrete ramping is now not even one level of dusty rubble. Twisted metal prongs stick out of hunks of grey rock like dead tree branches; everything’s covered in a smoky haze, like the canefields in burning season. Worse, everything is quiet. No gunfire, no taunting, no screaming. Nothing but the odd rumbling crack as a piece of rubble collapses under its own weight. 

No Junkrat. 

‘Boss?’ 

Silence is the only response. Something cold and ugly begins to churn in Roadhog’s gut. 

He tries again, louder this time, as he starts walking (stumbling) towards the ruins: ‘ _Boss_?’ 

By the time he reaches what used to be the outer wall he’s almost running and he still hasn’t heard a damn thing. The churning in his gut is acidic now, piercing and burning, but he doesn’t have the time to stop for Hogdrogen; he has to find Junkrat. Hogdrogen can come later. The heartburn will just have to wait. Christ, where is he, where _is_ he – 

Out of the corner of his eye-piece he spots a flash of blond hair, half hidden by rubble. He’s there in an instant. Chunks of concrete are thrown unceremoniously aside as he plows into the debris. ‘Junkrat?’ 

His answer is a series of wet-sounding coughs. They're heavy and nasty, definitely Junkrat's coughs, but they sound weaker than usual. He hopes like fuck it's just his ears playing up. 

‘It’s me,’ he says, his heart pounding near out of his chest – shitting _fuck_ , what the hell, why is he so – ‘Hold still. I’ll get you out.’ 

The battered form of his ostensible boss finally comes into view. He’s scraped up something awful and covered in dust but he’s alive, thank fuck, even if he’s pinned by a slab of concrete from the legs down. When he speaks it’s in a trembling voice that sounds nothing like Junkrat should. ‘R-road –’ 

‘Shut up,’ he growls, hooking his fingers around the slab lying across Junkrat’s legs. ‘Don’t talk. I gotcha.’ 

Predictably, the kid keeps talking. Figures. Even half dead he’s not gonna listen. ‘But m-my leg –’ 

‘Shut it. Save your strength.’ 

‘Hog –’ 

The rest of his sentence disappears into an anguished howl as Roadhog pulls the last slab clear. It’s a big piece, easily more than a hundred kilos but Hog isn’t exactly small himself; with one last burst of effort and a loud grunt, he sends it falling off to the side where it shatters and crumbles into dust. Satisfied, he turns back to inspect the damage. 

Jesus fucking _Christ_. 

‘I f-fucked up, mate,’ Junkrat says weakly. It's the first time Roadhog's ever wished the kid was wrong. 

Junkrat’s leg – the right leg, the leg that Roadhog stomped on the very first time they met, the leg with the long scar down the shin to remind them both of that tumultuous beginning – is now nothing more than a ragged stump ending a couple inches above where his knee used to be. With the weight of the slab gone it’s now pissing blood at a truly terrifying rate. It’s only been seconds since Roadhog moved the concrete but there’s already a pool of thick, sticky red liquid on the ground where Rat’s leg should be.

As he watches, something in the stump twitches, and the pool continues to expand. 

Junkrat coughs again. It’s a wretched, desperate sound. He’s beginning to shake now, too, and the hand that reaches up for Roadhog’s vest is trembling more than his voice is. ‘Roadie… mate, I’m – I’m s-sorry –’ 

He kneels beside the smaller man, ignoring both the pleading, stuttering apologies and the pull on his vest as Junkrat clutches for something, _anything_ to hold on to. He doesn’t have time to listen. He barely even has time to think. There’s only one way that Junkrat’s gonna survive an injury this bad and it sure as hell isn’t gonna be by sitting here and listening to him die. 

With one hand he effortlessly scoops up Junkrat and leans him against his chest. With the other, he reaches up high behind his own head and finds the clasps that hold his mask in place. Two clicks sound – two tiny, quiet little clicks – and then he’s pulling it clear. 

It feels like he’s pulling his own face off. The desert air feels cold against his cheeks even as it feels hot against his neck. It’s bright, too bright, even here in the ruins of the parking lot; his gut’s still churning and burning and his lungs are already protesting at the dust in the air but Roadhog has a job to do and damned if he’s not gonna get it done. 

The kid’s eyes go wide – wider than Roadhog’s ever seen them. He doesn’t stop to look. He gets the straps over the patchy blond hair, double-checks the leather’s sealed tight enough to not waste too much and doesn’t meet Junkrat’s gaze again ‘til he’s got the Hogdrogen canister locked and pumping. 

Junkrat’s still staring at him like he’s never seen an old man before. Maybe it’s his _tā moko_. Or maybe it’s the ring in his nose. Fucked if he knows. 

The death-grip on his vest eases as the nanites get to work. The blood pool slows its expansion as the wound begins to seal over, then stops growing entirely as the biggest artery finally closes over. It’s not a perfect job (nanites never are) but Junkrat’s no longer bleeding to death and for now, that’s all that really matters. He’ll live. The leg’s well and truly gone, he’s still down a shit-load of blood and the stump is still oozing plasma something awful but he’ll live. 

Roadhog releases the breath he doesn’t remember holding. ‘Next time,’ he grunts, on the remote chance Junkrat will listen and the even more remote chance he’ll remember it at an appropriate time, ‘just let them call me fat.’ The canister rattles, signifying it’s empty, and he tosses it to the ground without ceremony before reaching for another one. ‘I’m fat. I can handle it.’ 

To his surprise Junkrat doesn’t reply. No smart-arse comment. No completely unrelated comment. Not even a mad bomber’s laugh – nothing. He just stares silently through the slowly-fogging eyepieces. 

Unsure how to respond to that, Roadhog settles for a non-committal grunt and plugs in the next canister. It’s probably overkill on such a scrawny frame but he’d rather be safe than sorry. Nearest doc’s at least a week away, after all, and he’s not gonna let him die now. At least not from anything he can stop. 

Scrawny, bony fingers twist and knot themselves in his vest once more. He doesn’t complain. Rat’s probably still in shock and a fair amount of pain; he’s not gonna blame him for wanting some kind of anchor to hold on to. He shuffles the kid a bit closer so he doesn’t have to reach for the leather. Better his vest than his pants, and better that Rat doesn’t have to push himself. 

He grunts again, tosses the second empty canister and starts unbuckling the mask. His mouth already feels full of grit and he hates to admit it but he feels somewhat naked without leather and metal over his face. Besides, Junkrat’s probably the healthiest he’s been in years now (ignoring the new stump and rock-bottom blood pressure, of course) and like hell he’s letting the kid keep his mask any longer. 

It's about now that his brain finally registers that Rat's seen his face. He feels like he should be more bothered by this than he is but, well, shit – he shared his mask with the kid. He shared his Hogdrogen with the kid. If he's gonna be bothered by something, the face thing's the least of his worries right now. 

Roadhog tries to hurry up with the straps. He'll worry about that shit later. 

Junkrat finally speaks again, right as Roadhog’s halfway through fumbling his mask back on single-handedly. His voice is weak and shaking and still sounds nothing like it should do. ‘Why?’ 

Trust the bastard to ask the one question he doesn’t have an answer for. 

Well – that’s a bit of a lie. He’s got a pretty solid idea why he went above and beyond his job description without a second’s hesitation. Just like he’s pretty sure he knows why he didn’t have to think twice before taking his mask off and blowing two canisters of Hogdrogen to make sure the kid survived. Just like he’s pretty sure he knows why – now that the kid’s going to be okay – the pain in his gut’s disappeared without Hogdrogen, far too quickly to be chalked up to heartburn, and his pulse is slowly approaching normal again. 

He just doesn’t have an answer he’s willing to tell Junkrat. Or himself. 

So Roadhog replies with a shrug, a casual ‘It’s my job,’ and finishes reattaching his mask in silence. The sooner they can leave the better. Even with the Hogdrogen it’s going to take at least a few days for Junkrat to recover from the shock and blood loss, never mind adjusting to the loss of his leg and this place is neither defensible nor sheltered enough to be suitable. 

He picks Junkrat up easily and makes his way down the road to their bike, which has thankfully survived the gunfight and explosions intact. Never before has he been so grateful for the side-car. 

The floor of said side-car is covered in scraps of everything from metal to paper so he pauses to clear a bit of room, making sure there aren’t any nails or spikes waiting to be sat on, before carefully setting Rat down. After a moment’s consideration he pulls a moth-eaten blanket free and firmly tucks it around the smaller junker. It’s been a good long while but he’s fairly sure that warmth is the right way to treat shock. Yeah, okay, so it’s not exactly cold out here but he’s not taking the chance on wind chill. 

‘Don’t take it off,’ he grunts, more as a formality than an actual instruction. If Junkrat wants it gone, it’ll go. At least he can say he tried. 

Junkrat merely nods. 

Unsettled, Roadhog grunts again and kicks the bike into high gear. It isn’t until they’re a good five minutes away from the old parking lot that he realises Junkrat never tried to pry beyond that initial, single question. 

When he glances over, Rat’s curled up and fast asleep, still wrapped tightly in the old blanket. 

He’s not attached. He’s just doing his job. 

At least, that’s what he’s telling himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's prompt was "a story about a near-death experience" and was inspired by a piece of art I saw quite a while ago - I wish I could find it to link (it was Hog sharing his mask with a beat-up Rat, sketch style and partially shaded). I kind of wish I was doing this a little more organised and could put out the stories in this timeline in something approaching the right order, but hey. Things were always going to end up Roadrat; it's not like I'm spoiling anything. Maybe at the end I'll put together a master list of the chapters set in the same timeline/AU in the proper chronological order... hmm.
> 
> I think I'll try to hit double digits of chapters first.


	7. The Young Man And The Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you listen closely, you can hear a lot of sounds out on the ocean. Laughter, however, is usually not one of them.

Sometimes, Mako thinks, the ocean sounds like _waiata_. The sea-birds are the leaders, the ones who start the melody; the waves beating against the hull of his _waka_ are the supporters, filling in the gaps. Sometimes when the winds come up they sound like the _taonga pūoro_ – when they’re angry they’re like the bull-roarers, loud and deep, and then when they die down to the breezes they sound just like the little pipes he sometimes carves out of wood. When he’s on the move the splash of his paddle carving through the water is the _poi_ accompanying the melody, and he tries to time it so it flows with the ocean’s song. 

Sure, it means he’s sprayed with salt water more frequently than he otherwise would be, but it’s a small price to pay to keep the _waiata_ flowing nicely. Some things are more important than creature comforts. 

Today the ocean’s song is particularly loud. It’s not quite storming yet but the winds are higher than they were when he set off. The birds aren’t happy about it; they’ve been almost constantly calling to each other all the time he’s been out here. He’s already had to move spots twice because they’ve spooked the fish. Normally he’d have a healthy catch by now but today he’s only caught a half-dozen medium sized moki (made doubly frustrating because the first fish, the one he returned to Tangaroa, was at least twice the size of anything else he’s caught – he knows better than to put words in the mouth of the gods but surely his reverence is worth more than this?). 

Mako growls to himself as he pulls in his net yet again. Even before anything breaks the surface he can feel it’s not a good catch. The song of the ocean is not right today. Two, three – yes, only four moki in the net this time, and all but one of those are so small that there’s no point in keeping them. 

He frees the tiny fish with a sigh and slips them back into the ocean. Maybe in a season or two they’ll cross his path again. 

The fourth one, the one that looked big enough to keep, he inspects with a frown. Now that he’s looking at it closely he’s not sure he should be keeping this one either. It’s bigger than anything in the bottom of his _waka_ but both its back-fins have been bitten off and there’s deep scratches down its flank, almost like claw marks – clearly the lost or rejected catch of an ocean predator, dead before he pulled it from the water. How it ended up in his net he has no idea. 

If he didn’t know better he’d swear he could hear the ocean laughing at him. 

Troubled, he decides to return the dead fish to the sea as well. He’d rather not risk the wrath of the water today and he knows it won’t go to waste; there’s no shortage of hungry creatures down below. Maybe he’ll be lucky and they’ll let him take some of the healthier moki in exchange for him returning their lost meal. 

He casts his net out again and goes back to listening to the ocean’s song. 

Mere moments later he’s surprised by a healthy tug on his net – so strong that it’s almost pulled clean out of his hands. He’s still debating whether to haul it in or not when the net’s tugged again, this time stronger and more insistent. This time he doesn’t question. He eagerly hauls it in. He’s heard other fishermen speak of the ocean rewarding them before but he’s never had it happen to him, at least not this quickly, and whatever’s in his net feels strong and large – 

The excitement dies on his lips as he dumps the catch on the floor of his canoe. Four large moki, the biggest almost the size of his own bicep… but all four of them are dead, stone dead, their back-fins bitten off and sharp holes where their hearts should be, like they’ve been speared. 

Hesitantly he picks up the biggest fish for a closer look. Whatever caught it through the heart was sharp and long enough to go right through; if he didn’t know better he’d have sworn he’d speared it himself. The bite-marks left along its spine are too big for an eel but too small for a shark and too neat for either predator (at least in his experience, and he’s been fishing all his life). 

Maybe he’s chanced upon the current taken by a more careless fisherman. Someone who didn’t listen to the ocean, who didn’t give his first fish to Tangaroa and who paid by having his _waka_ overturned and his catches returned to the water for Mako to run into. The currents out here run fast enough that it’s possible (not likely, but possible) and he’s hauled up stranger things in his nets before. 

He hasn’t seen anyone on the water all day, though. And he’s never heard of a predator or a fisherman that bites only the spines of the fish while leaving the rest intact. But these four fish weigh almost as much as the rest of his catches combined. 

This time, he’s almost certain he can hear the ocean laughing. Little bubbling cries of laughter that burst like bubbles against the hull of his _waka_. Not mocking – the birds are doing the mocking today – but dangerous. 

It’s not worth the risk. As much as it pains him to throw away otherwise perfect fish he’s not willing to risk the wrath of the ocean so brazenly. He makes sure to throw them down-current from his fishing spot and, with a silent plea to Tangaroa, casts his net out once more. If nothing viable comes back this time he’ll move on but surely the last of the already-dead moki must have been swept away by now. Surely. 

His net jerks again, harder this time. Part of him is almost afraid to pull it up for fear of what he’ll find. So before he hauls in his latest catch he makes sure he has his _tao_ and his _patu_ well within reach. 

Five dead moki spill over the canoe floor. Even without picking them up he recognizes the spear-holes, the bitten-off fins, the claw marks down the side of that first one. He recognizes the biggest one, the one that’s still almost the size of his own bicep, and he _knows_ that the currents couldn’t have done this. 

The ocean is laughing. This time, there’s no mistaking the sound. 

Something slams into the hull behind him, strong enough to make the entire _waka_ rock from side to side. He whips around but he’s too slow; he only catches a glimpse of water-spray falling back into the sea. It strikes again, stronger this time, this time on the other end of the hull and Mako bares his teeth as he reaches for his weapons. He’s fought off sharks before but this – this is something different. This is something very different. He’s as comfortable in the ocean as he is on land but he knows that this time it’s different, this time he’s just a small fish in Tangaroa’s domain and whatever it is he’s done to anger the ocean, it’s not going to let him off so easily. 

He roars defiance anyway. He’s shown all the right deference and followed all the old rituals; he’s not going to just sit passively and accept whatever fate Tangaroa has in store for him. Mako is a fisherman with a warrior’s heart and he will not go down without a fight. 

To his utter astonishment, the beatings stop. He’s left sitting there stupidly, weapons in hand, as the canoe slowly settles down with the waves again. 

Then, just as he’s starting to wonder if it was all a bad dream, the ocean starts to laugh again. The sound is as clear and sharp as the cries of the birds above and he doesn’t know how he could have mistaken it for anything else. 

He thinks he catches a glimpse of something long and powerful winding beneath the waves, tiny bubbles rising to the surface in its wake. 

Taniwha. 

His mind conjures up memories of the carvings back in his village, conjures up stories he’s been told throughout his life – shape-shifters, monsters, protectors, destroyers. Legendary creatures of the waterways. Saviors. Man-eaters. 

Mako’s mouth goes dry. The fish were a blessing, a gift from the monster and by rejecting them it thinks – by rejecting them he’s – 

Two loud thumps sound behind him and the waka lurches. He can hear the scrape of something sharp running across the wooden hull, the sound of something wet dripping seawater onto the wooden floor. He remembers the stories of women kidnapped to underwater grottos to mother taniwha children. He remembers the stories of men bringing water-demons back to their villages as wives, bewitched by the monsters. Most clearly of all, he remembers the stories of all the warriors who died trying to kill taniwhas, because only a taniwha slayer as legendary as the beasts themselves stood a chance against them. 

Mako is just a fisherman. A fisherman with a warrior’s heart, but still just a fisherman. 

Gripping his weapons a little tighter all the same, he turns to face his death. 

He’s greeted with a toothy grin from a far too human face. A thin, pointy face that he could almost think was a man’s but for the blazing sunset eyes and the almost water-like blue-green skin stretched thin over pointy bones. Jagged, ragged-edged fins wave gently in the breeze like hair. It has two arms like a man, a ridged ribcage like a man but sharp claws tip its bone-thin fingers where nails should be. Its tail is an eel’s tail, starting where a man’s legs should be, and long and thick enough that it spills out over the edge of the canoe into the water. 

The taniwha tilts its head, inspecting Mako like one would inspect a hooked fish, and the grin grows wider. ‘You don’t like my fish?’ it asks. Its voice is that same kind of almost-human as its face – close, very close, but not quite right. It’s thick and syrupy like tree sap but flows as easily and smoothly as the rivers. It’s deep and dangerous and listening to it is like hearing the currents flow along the ocean floor. 

It laughs. The sound bubbles up and bursts against Mako’s ears. He’s drowning above the water, sinking deep into those burning eyes and for the first time in his life he can’t remember how to swim. 

‘I –’ he pauses, swallows and tries again, ‘I did not want to take what was not mine.’ His grip on the weapons has loosened somehow, he realizes, but he can’t force his hands to tighten again. In all honesty he’s not sure he wants them to. This has to be the creature’s doing, it _has_ to be, but the thought feels so strongly his own that he barely gives it pause. 

The taniwha titters, crawling towards him using those stick-thin arms. They almost look too weak to hold it upright but Mako can see the shallow gouges left in the hull of the waka by its claws – he’d be a fool to judge the creature’s strength by its appearance. ‘That’s awfully polite of you, fisher-man. But what if I wished you to take them?’ 

Mako swallows again. As the taniwha gets closer the scent of the ocean is growing stronger. He can smell seaweed drying on the sands as the tide flows out, small dead things rotting in rockpools under the summer sun, the sharp tang of blood as he steps on the star-burst shells that grow on the rocks – 

‘You haven’t answered me, fisher-man,’ the taniwha says. It’s right in front of him, now, and its eyes are glowing like fire. 

‘If you wished?’ Mako asks, and gods help him, his voice is wavering – ‘If you wished me to take them I would take them gladly, but I don’t understand why you would wish me to have them.’ 

He feels one of those long, sharp claws trail along his forearm, leaving a thin line of water along its path. When it reaches the shaft of his _toa_ it halts, tracing a small circle on his thumb, and taps twice. 

Mako drops the weapon without a moment’s thought. He’s a fisherman, not a warrior and by now any thought of fighting the monster has long since disappeared. He doesn’t even need to be prompted to drop his _patu_ ; the wooden club clatters to the floor straight after the _toa_. 

The taniwha’s grin widens and it clicks its tongue against its teeth. ‘Is my wish not reason enough?’ 

Mako doesn’t quite know what he’s meant to say to that. He would gladly take all the fish in the ocean if they were offered but that’s the catch; it’s not an offer. The taniwha wants – no, _wishes_ him to have the fish. It’s not offering for him to take them. It’s ordering him to take them, daring him to refuse. 

Eventually the creature laughs again and the bubbling laugh breaks the spell a little, just enough that Mako remembers to breathe again. ‘I suppose,’ the taniwha says, still staring at him with those smouldering eyes, ‘that if it would make you feel better, you could… give me something, in return for the fish?’ 

It’s framed as a question but there’s no question about it. This is a bad idea, a terrible idea, it’s going to get him killed or kidnapped or drowned or – _something_ , something as vague and disturbing as the taniwha’s request – but he doesn’t have any other option. To turn down the offer would be even more dangerous than to accept it. And there’s something in those eyes, something powerful and ancient and wonderous that even though it will probably mean his death Mako doesn’t want to say no. 

Mako nods, slowly and deliberately. He can’t quite bring himself to speak. The thought feels even more his own than before and he’s not sure what to make of it. Or, for that matter, if he’ll ever have the chance to make anything of it. 

The taniwha’s grin grows wider still. Whether it’s the shape-shifting magic or just the natural size of its mouth, Mako doesn’t know, but the grin almost reaches across its entire face. ‘Then we have an agreement, fisher-man,’ it whispers, and leans in. 

Mako closes his eyes. He can feel its breath on his skin, moist and salty and as cold as the ocean floor, and he knows he’s going to die. 

Except he doesn’t. 

There’s a soft tug on his hair, a snicker so soft he’s not entirely sure he heard it and then a loud splash as something long, powerful and dangerous vanishes back into the depths. 

When he opens his eyes the gifted moki are still there, all five of them, stone dead and ready for scaling. There’s a puddle of water on the floor of his _waka_ that smells like seaweed drying on the sands as the tide flows out, like small dead things rotting in rockpools under the summer sun, like the sharp tang of blood as he steps on the star-burst shells that grow on the rocks. And there’s a single, solitary feather missing from the piece on his head. 

The ocean breaks its song with laughter, dangerous and alluring and somehow reminiscent of sunsets. 

This time, Mako joins in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is the "counterpart" to the Bunyip AU. What started as a bit of mythology research quickly ended up as yet another monstrous AU. This week's prompt was "a story set at sea" and, much like Bunyips, this is probably another AU that I'll return to at some point. I have a bit of a soft spot for mythical/legendary creatures and the lore I've been reading on taniwhas (pronounced "ton-e-fa") is really, really interesting.
> 
> A little bit early this week but I didn't know if I'd get the time to post over the next few days. Ah well. Better early than late!
> 
> Now (and this is important), I'm not Maori; my knowledge of myths, legends, lores and traditions is primarily centred around my homeland (Australia) and the more northern parts of Europe (my heritage) so I did have to do a decent bit of research for this story. I cross-referenced as much as I could and I'm pretty confident in the accuracy of everything that made it into the final story but please - if you notice something I've gotten wrong, let me know so I can fix it!
> 
> Finally - I've been having a bit of a rough week mentally, so to the lovely people who left comments that I have yet to reply to: I have seen them and I am so amazingly appreciative of them! I'm not ignoring you deliberately, I promise. I will try to reply properly when things have settled down a bit. In the meantime though, thankyou so much for your kind words and I'm really glad you're enjoying this series of fics so much :)
> 
> (Also: one day I will figure out how to title things appropriately. Today is not that day.)


	8. Nothing but Scraps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamison "Junkrat" Fawkes is a man of many talents, only some of which deal with exploding things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in the same timeline as the rest of the "New Beginnings" stories - Weeks 1, 4 and 6 - just a smidge after Week 6, and a fair way before Week 4. Part one of a double update to make up for missing last week's story!

‘What’s the deal with the shotgun?’ Junkrat asks, as he whittles down an old railway sleeper. 

Behind his mask, Roadhog frowns. ‘The deal with it?’ 

‘Well, yeah. Like – ya barely use it. That last scrap you only used two shells against, what, fifteen blokes?’ 

‘Six,’ he corrects, even though he knows Junkrat isn’t listening. 

‘An’ the one before that I had to help ya dig buckshot out y’ shoulder ‘cause you got into the thick of it using only y’ hook an’ ya fists. Then there was the time ya got a crack in the stock by smacking it on a bloke’s head instead o’ puttin’ a round through it. Even back at the shack I never heard you firin’ it much. What’s the go? Don’t trust y’ aim or somethin’?’ 

Roadhog sighs. 

On the one hand, he’s glad Rat perked back up so quickly after losing his leg. It’s been almost a week now and if it wasn’t for the stump Roadhog would say nothing had ever happened. On the other, it means all the energy normally poured into movement now goes straight to Rat’s mouth and over the past week he’s been asked more questions than he has in the last two decades. 

Truth be told he’s not entirely sure why he’s answering them. It probably has something to do with the fact still hasn’t been asked to explain his actions after the explosion (which he hasn’t been thinking about constantly, not at all). Also maybe because he should’ve kept a closer eye on things and not left Rat in such a dangerous position to begin with. Making amends and all that crap. 

‘Ammo’s hard to find outside town,’ he grunts. ‘Don’t like wasting it.’ 

‘It ain’t wasting it if it kills a bloke.’ 

‘It’s wasting it if I can kill them without it.’ 

Rat finally looks over at him, frowning slightly. ‘Can’t you just like, shove regular metal slugs into the barrels or somethin’?’ 

‘Only if I wanted a fake hand to go with your new leg.’ 

Junkrat huffs loudly and turns his attention back to the sleeper. 

Thirty seconds later, he looks over again. ‘What about nails?’ 

Roadhog sighs. But Christ he’ll be glad when that peg leg’s ready.

* * *

A month or two later, Roadhog’s all but forgotten the question-filled fortnight spent waiting for Junkrat to put together his new leg. With one or two notable exceptions (“Is that… Rat, I don’t think knees are meant to bend that way.” “I fuckin’ _know_ that but this clanker piece of shit ain’t listening to – oh, wait a sec, there we go –”) things have been fairly smooth. 

Honestly, he has to hand it to the kid; he’s handled losing a leg far better than Roadhog thought he would. Shit, he’s handled losing a leg better than Roadhog himself would. It took him only four days to put together a functional prosthetic, then another ten to wire up his stump and get it working properly. It probably would’ve taken longer but (to the surprise of both of them) Roadhog offered the use of his Hogdrogen for the grafting process and Junkrat actually accepted. 

Convenience, he keeps telling himself. Must’ve been hell not being able to walk. It was hell having to carry him everywhere, absolute hell having to let Rat lean on him every time he tried out his new leg, a literal waking nightmare having to support him as he tried to walk… purely convenience, nothing more. Nothing more. 

At least, that’s what he keeps telling himself, even a month or two later. 

‘Hey, Roadie! C’mere a sec!’ Rat hollers from the far side of the camp. 

Roadhog sighs but obediently climbs to his feet. He knows their current camp’s secure (it’s the middle of an old mining town – they’ve got concrete ruins rigged with booby traps on all four sides), which means Rat’s probably found another two-headed lizard or something equally mundane. 

Mundane. Not unimportant, just mundane because Rat’s his boss and therefore things that aren’t important are not unimportant – just mundane. 

Rat bounces impatiently as he meanders over. That in itself isn’t strange; Rat’s always bouncing. What _is_ strange is that he’s trying to hide something behind his back. Trying, not succeeding because he’s a skinny little thing and whatever he’s trying to hide is definitely not skinny in the least. 

Roadhog slows his approach, stopping a good arm’s distance from Rat. ‘What is it?’ he asks suspiciously. 

Rat gives him an ear-to-ear grin. Somehow it still looks kind of sheepish. ‘A surprise for ya.’ 

‘I don’t do surprises.’ 

‘What about if they’re presents?’ 

It’s not often he wishes his mask showed emotion but right now he’s really wishing his mask had eyebrows he could raise. Rat’s already paying him fifty percent – what’s the point of gifts on top of that? 

Something bubbles in his stomach. He tells himself it’s something that wasn’t cooked properly. He’s too old and worn for that shit. ‘Presents?’ 

‘Yep! I mean… you’ve been a right great bodyguard the last couple months and ya did kinda save m’ life at the old garage, an’ I was thinkin’ about the convo we had while I was putting the leg together an’ so –’ Rat brings out the item behind his back with a flourish – ‘I made this for ya!’ 

‘It looks like it’s going to blow up,’ he says flatly, because it does. It looks like something that an old cartoon supervillain would use – two short, fat barrels cobbled together out of metal scraps, a trigger actually sized properly for his hands (which looks ludicrously oversized even to him) and a reinforced grip below the gaping mouth. A shotgun of some sort is his best guess… or maybe a double-barreled grenade launcher. 

It’s very thoughtfully been painted yellow to match his shoulder-pad. Credit where it’s due, he supposes. 

Junkrat clicks his tongue in annoyance. ‘Don’t be stupid, mate; that’s what _my_ shit does.’ 

He doesn’t bother pointing out the problem with that statement. 

‘But yeah, nah, I was thinkin’ about that conversation we had about your gun – y’know how you were sayin’ ya can’t just shovel scrap into it for some stupid reason? – an’ it got me thinkin’ an’, well, I made this for ya! Won’t have to worry about ammo with this baby; it takes anythin’ you can fit into it!’ 

Roadhog’s mind supplies him with visions of his fingers being fed through a meat-grinder, high-velocity sausages firing out the far end. The bubbling in his stomach’s stopped at least. ‘Rat –’ 

‘It’s real simple, Hoggy, I promise,’ he continues, either ignoring or (more likely) failing to notice Roadhog’s reluctance. ‘Look, I’ll show ya!’ 

Before Hog’s entirely aware of what’s happening Rat’s grabbed his hand and wrapped it around the holster, aiming vaguely towards a non-mined concrete wall. The entire front half of the weapon hinges forward with a click that sounds far too soft and smooth for something this patchwork; as he watches, Rat scoops up a hand of nails, scrap metal and rocks and shoves it wholesale into the maw. ‘Rat –’ 

‘Ya just shovel it all in _there_ an’ flip the barrel back up ( _snap_ ) an’ get y’ hand clear –’ 

‘ _Junkrat_ –’ 

‘– and _fire_!’ 

Roadhog crushes his eyes shut just in time to hear the trigger click. There’s a buck like shotgun recoil on steroids, a booming explosion like one of Rat’s grenades and holy _fuck_ he’s gonna tear the runt in two even if it means using one hand and his teeth –

Except nothing hurts. No pain materializes in the evaporated hand he can still feel clearly attached to his wrist. No burning, no tearing, no searing – nothing at all. 

Roadhog hesitantly dares to open his eyes. 

Instead of the bloody stump he expects to see he’s instead greeted by a landscape scattered with chunks of concrete. More than one section of the wall has been completely obliterated; several more are sporting impressive gouges or cracks. Beside him, Junkrat is grinning at the carnage like it’s the best thing he’s ever seen. 

His fingers – and the gun – are still intact. Somehow. 

Junkrat whoops. The sound echoes across the landscape like some deranged bird’s cry. ‘What’d I tell ya, Hoggy? Fuckin’ _obliterates_ shit!’ 

Roadhog stares at his ostensible boss. Then he stares at the gun. A small, almost unintentional noise escapes his mouth: ‘Heh.’ He bends down, scoops up a handful of scrap and shovels it into the weapon as he aims at another part of the building. This time he doesn’t wait for Junkrat to pull the trigger. The wall is obliterated in a hail of shrapnel and flame, along with a solid chunk of the ground behind it. ‘Heh. _Heh_.’ 

And then he’s laughing, really laughing, from-the-bottom-of-his-gut laughing for the first time in years. Fuck, it feels good. Or maybe that’s just the reaction to his newfound powers of destruction. He doesn’t really give a shit. 

Almost without thinking about it he raises one gigantic hand and slaps it down on Rat’s head. ‘Good job, boss.’ 

Junkrat’s grin is almost wide enough to split his face. Credit where it’s due; Rat’s skull might be thicker than it looks but evidently whatever’s inside knows its shit when it comes to weapons. ‘Just wait ‘til ya see the quick-loader I got in mind for it!’ he says, letting go of Roadhog’s hand to scoop up a double handful of scrap. ‘Now c’mon – there’s bits of that thing still standing!’ 

For once, Roadhog has absolutely no problems indulging Junkrat’s demands. 

(The bubbling in his stomach is back with a vengeance, but surely it’s just a reaction to his new weapon. It has to be. He’s too old and too worn for it to be anything else.) 

(At least, he keeps telling himself as much.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for this week was "a story about a scientific discovery". The scrap-gun might not be a Nobel Prize winner but I'm pretty sure it still counts.
> 
> For those of you who enjoy hurt/comfort kind of stuff, don't fret - the "missing" couple of weeks in the middle of this tale will be making an appearance as another week's story. Originally it was going to be one long one but it didn't quite fit with the themes and, in all honesty, I didn't want to make this any later than it was. Hopefully at the end of this month things will calm down a bit.
> 
> (Also: two months of mostly-on-time updates! Woo!)
> 
> [edited in week 10: now with a title]  
> (He says, posting the two-month-mark story one week late...)


	9. The First Seven Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's going to die, he's sure of it. But he'll be damned if he doesn't go down swinging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of the Bunyips AU (Week 5), and part two of the double update.

‘Fuck you!’ Jamie snarls, his lips twisted into the most feral snarl he can manage. ‘You think just because you’re bigger an’ scarier than me you can do whatever ya want? You think I ain’t a threat just because you got claws and fangs an’ shit an’ I don’t? You think bringin’ me here ain’t gonna end badly for you? Mark my fuckin’ words, you’re gonna regret it. When I’m dumpin’ your corpse I ain’t even gonna stop to take a piss on it!’ He punctuates his tirade by dramatically folding his arms, raising his chin defiantly – how d’ya like _them_ apples, huh? 

The pool of water in front of him remains still and conspicuously monster-free. 

Probably a good thing, all up. Just because the monster didn’t kill him immediately doesn’t mean it can’t be provoked into killing him now. 

Unsure if he should be relieved or pissed off he huffs and turns his back on the pool. He knows it’s petty as all hell to give the cold shoulder to a puddle of water but the stupid thing’s the only way in and out of the monster’s den, so he doesn’t particularly care. 

He honestly thought he was going to drown getting in. He got two second’s warning in the form of a growled _reathe dee_ (“Wreath dee? Whaddya mean, wreath dee –”) before the beast dragged him over its shoulder and dove underwater. It probably wasn’t more than thirty seconds, truth be told but thirty seconds in freezing, murky swamp water was thirty seconds more than Jamie was comfortable with. He remembers feeling powerful muscles work beneath him, seeing glimpses of those webbed and clawed paws slicing through the water almost effortlessly, thinking that this was how it was going to kill him – and then just as his lungs were about to give out they broke the surface in here. 

He was still spluttering and gasping for breath when the monster dumped him on the ground beside the pool. It sliced through his bindings in seconds (upon later inspection, said bindings were determined to be his own rope) and – without even as much as a growled warning or snarled order not to go anywhere – it was gone again, leaving him dripping wet and confused as all fuck. 

At least it’s warm in here, so he’s not going to catch cold. Humid and moist like a rainforest. Or like a stinky, damp swamp-monster’s den. 

So Jamie’s never been particularly good with words beyond the four-letter variety. Sue him. 

‘Fuckin’ bastard,’ he mumbles, starting off on another round of the den. He knows he’s not going to find anything useful but damned if he’s just going to sit here and wait patiently to be eaten. Besides, if he doesn’t keep moving it’s ten to one his arm’s going to start rusting in places it shouldn’t. Or growing slimy shit in places it shouldn’t. When he was making it waterproof he tested it against actual water, not swamp muck almost thick enough to be solid. 

Unsurprisingly his latest exploratory trip fails to produce anything useful, even though the area’s pretty well-lit from the multitude of glow-worms nestled in the walls and ceiling. No hidden exits previously overlooked, no bones big enough to use as clubs, no bones strong enough to use as knives. There’s no shortage of bones, true, but they all look to be from fish or other small critters – the biggest he can find is barely the size of his pinky finger. There’s a strange mound off to the left side that he honest-to-god thought was another monster at first but it’s not; it’s just a pile of dirt. And there’s a pile of half-rotten vegetation at the back that he’s guessing is the monster’s bed. 

No – nest. It’s a monster, not a man; it’s a nest. A nest in its sub-aquatic den. Kinda like a platypus, almost, just bigger and hopefully without the poisonous spurs (though he doesn’t like his chances of that). Maybe that’s what it is – a freakishly overgrown platypus. Except without a flat tail and without a beak and with big-ass claws and non-stumpy limbs and teeth half the size of his head. 

Yeah, definitely a fucking platypus, all right. 

A nervous titter escapes his lips and he wraps his arms around himself a little tighter. He’s not cold, not really; unless he stands directly next to the entry-exit pool it’s too humid to be too cold. 

He’s definitely starting to lose it though. 

The monster probably only grabbed him ten minutes ago but it feels like hours ago, like a whole other lifetime ago, and the greenish light reflecting off his prosthetic arm is making him feel like he’s stumbled into the Twilight Zone. Ten minutes ago he was setting his charges in a swamp and now he’s fallen out of the rainbow into Emerald City (not Oz, because he’s _in_ Oz, even if it’s not _that_ Oz and oh fuck look at him now he’s losing it –) 

‘Fuckin’ _bastard_ ,’ he repeats, unsure if he’s referring to the monster or himself anymore. 

Right. Rightrightright. He needs a plan; a plan is what he needs. Jamie’s Patented Three-Step-Plan to Kill the Monster and Escape. Step One: find something to kill the monster with. Step Two: kill the monster. Step Three: escape. 

Simple. So simple a kid could do it. 

He forces himself to put his hands on his hips, to straighten up to his full six-foot-six height and pretend like he’s not gnawing at his lip, pretend like the shaking’s just a chill in the moist, humid air. 

Step One: find a weapon. 

He can’t use his rope anymore; it’s sliced to shit and too short for anything. He can’t use the bones as clubs; they’re too small and too light. He can’t use the bones as knives; they’re too brittle and too blunt. There’s no rocks. There’s no wood. Well, except his peg-leg. 

Huh; his peg-leg. That’s an idea. A fucking stupid idea, but an idea. Peg-leg off, hop around ‘til the monster comes back, hope like hell that his first blow lands solid before he topples off-balance… and then he’s just got to swim back out that tunnel to freedom. Because swimming is something he can definitely do, especially with a metal arm and one unattached wooden leg. Double-especially when the water’s freezing cold and so thick with slime it’s almost solid. Triple-especially when he almost drowned when the _monster_ was doing the swimming and not him. 

He’s gonna die in here, isn’t he? 

He giggles again, high-pitched and desperate, and his resolve crumples as quickly as his body. 

‘ _Fuckin’ bastard_ ,’ he says, curled up against the wall, only it’s more of a whimper this time and directed entirely at himself.

* * *

Somewhere between five minutes and six hours later Jamie wakes from a fitful nap to a loud splash. For a beautiful, wonderful moment he has no idea where he is, only that there’s water nearby (motel pool maybe? The ocean?) and that it’s warm (downright toasty, really, and humid to boot) and that there’s a familiar snort-huffing noise that sounds like it’s coming from underwater somewhere – 

Reality is the most effective alarm-clock he’s ever experienced. 

By the time the monster’s dragged itself out of the pool he’s sat bolt upright, pressed as far back against the wall as he can manage. Somehow the thing’s gotten even bigger than it was before. It’s possible that’s just courtesy of his new vantage point but even then it’s still a right big bastard – solid and stocky, like an old-school circus strongman sized up to fit a horse’s frame, beer gut and all. The light of the glow-worms makes its eyes look a little less empty-void. Now they look more like cat’s eyes, glinting brightly in the dim light, and as it looks over to him his heart begins thumping almost out of his chest. 

This is it. The end of the line. _Here lies Jamison Fawkes, eaten by a bog monster_ written on his tombstone (only not, because nobody’s gonna find whatever’s left of his corpse _here_ even if someone gave enough of a shit to give him a tombstone in the first place). 

Jamie swallows. There isn’t much to swallow but it feels like it’s something he should do. That’s what people do when they’re about to die, right? Swallow nervously, pray to god for a last-second reprieve… shit, he didn’t think of trying that earlier. Maybe he should now. Just because he and the big guy upstairs haven’t been on speaking terms for forever doesn’t mean he can’t try. It’s not like he’s got anything to lose, right? 

He swallows again and squeezes his eyes shut. _Are you there, God? It’s me, Jamie._ He pauses there, floundering for words, before they come to him in a flash of blinding inspiration: _HELP ME ALREADY YA FUCKIN’ BASTARD!_

Carefully he cracks one eyelid open. 

The monster’s still there and still very much alive, watching him quietly with its head tilted to one side. Swamp-water beads on its fur and rolls to the ground. 

Well, he tried. Fuck it all.

‘Go on, then,’ he spits, voice trembling. ‘Get it over with; I ain’t got all night. Day. Whatever the fuck time it is.’ 

The top of its mouth pulls upwards, revealing those huge yellowed fangs and blackened gums. It takes him a few seconds to realise it’s a lipless grin. ‘Get ‘aht oher ith?’ 

‘Don’t be fuckin’ coy with me. Eat me. Bite me ‘ead off, suck me guts out, knead the bones to make y’ bread or whatever it is ya do with ‘em.’ Fuck, look at him, he’s talking to it like it’s a person. Does it even know what bread is? Probably not. Definitely not. It lives in a hole in the ground for fuck’s sake; it’s not gonna pop down to the local Woolies for a loaf of bread to make a Jamie sandwich. 

‘You yaxa?’ 

‘Me what?’ 

‘Yaxa.’ It shakes itself like a gargantuan dog, sprinkling the whole den with slimy water. ‘Yaxa. Click-clicks. Snack-snacks.’ When the only response it gets is one of utter confusion it sits back on its haunches and presses the bases of its forepaws together, curling its – fingers? Toes? – into semi-circles so that only its claw-tips are touching. ‘Yaxa,’ it repeats slowly and deliberately, tapping its claws together like the bucket of an excavator. ‘Yaxa sound like snack-snack.’ 

This isn’t happening. There’s just no way this is happening. He’s most definitely not sitting on the floor of a cave lit by glow-worms being told _yaxa sound like snack-snack_ like he’s a particularly dumb schoolkid by a half-tonne monster from the bottom of the swamp. 

Any moment now the Twilight Zone music’s gonna start playing, it has to. 

‘…Crabs?’ he asks hesitantly, because there’s no fucking way – ‘Are you talkin’ about crabs?’ 

It thinks about this for a moment before grunting in what he assumes is approval. ‘You yaxa?’ 

‘Me yaxa?’ he repeats stupidly. Does it – is it confused by his arm and leg? Is that what this is about? Is it trying to work out if he’s – oh Christ, what if it thinks he’s just a big weird crab and – ‘No, no no no, I’m not a crab, I’m a – I’m a man! A person! Human!’ He scrabbles to his feet and begins flailing his arms about frantically in the least crab-like manner he can manage. ‘Hu-man! Person! Man! Not yaxa!’ 

Somehow, despite being the furthest thing from human he can imagine, the monster has no problems giving him a look that clearly says “I can see that, you fucking idiot”. 

Oh. So it just _sounds_ stupid. That Twilight Zone music sure would be great right about now. 

…but that means it knows he’s not a crab, right? He’s still not convinced it’s not lying (those teeth look far too big to be made for just cracking crab shells) but it clearly knows he’s not a crab and maybe – just maybe – he might not be getting eaten today. No guarantees for later but for today – 

It shakes it head and begins plodding towards the nest. ‘Not yaxa, not clean, not eat.’ 

He lets out the breath he wasn’t aware he was holding – he’s not gonna be eaten. Sound like snack-snack he does not; Jamison Fawkes ain’t gonna be nobody’s meal. Not today, anyway. Sure, he’s still stuck in the monster’s den and sure, it could still bite his head off at a moment’s notice but he’s _not gonna be eaten_ and right now that’s about the only thing he gives a shit – 

– wait a moment. Not _clean_? 

Jamie folds his arms petulantly and (under his breath, because he might not be yaxa but he’s not willing to push it) mutters, ‘Fuck you.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for this week was "A story opening with the words 'Fuck you!'". In all honesty it could have been pretty much any setting but I've been very keen to return to the Bunyip AU and so here we are.
> 
> Quick notes because running out the door and aaaaaah so much to do -
> 
> [edited for Week 10: now with a title (which may or may not come back to bite me in a couple weeks) and a summary!]


	10. Ngaro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn't know if he's lost, but he definitely knows it's a secret. The question now is how long he can keep it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of the Taniwha (ton-e-fa) AU from Week 7.

By the time he begins paddling back to shore, the pile of moki on the floor of his _waka_ has grown from eleven to forty-three and he knows he’s in trouble. Big trouble. His thoughts have been of nothing but water-like skin stretched taut over sharp bones, of eyes that burn like the sunset, of an intoxicating smooth and thick voice – yet his paddling is perfectly in time with the _waiata_ of the sea and not a single gull has tried to steal his catch. 

He’s been marked somehow, he can feel it. The ocean knows he’s been marked and he’s not the man he was when he set out to sea this morning. He’s changed or been changed (he can’t tell the difference anymore) and he’s in the biggest trouble of his life. 

Ever since he was little he’s been told tales of the men and women bewitched by taniwhas and lost to the world beneath the waves. He’s grown up hearing tales of men and women abandoning their villages, leaving grieving and angry families behind to mourn. Off the top of his head he remembers so many tales of men and women driven out of their villages for the ruin brought along by the taniwhas and he knows that nothing good has ever come of a taniwha taking interest in a man – much less him. 

But he tells himself that won’t be him. It _isn’t_ him. He’s been allowed to return to shore unhindered and unpunished. He hasn’t seen so much as a glimpse of the taniwha since he took up his paddle again, even though he’s been looking for it the entire journey back to shore. If he was truly bewitched he wouldn’t be able to leave, surely not. He gave the monster nothing (even though there’s only two feathers in his headdress), he made it no promises (“ _Then we have an agreement, fisher-man,_ ” it said, its breath cold and salty on his face) – 

He catches a glimpse of something orange out of the corner of his eye and his heart soars to join the gulls above him. 

When he turns his head to properly see it, though, it’s nothing but a glint of sunlight on the waves. No smouldering sunset eyes. Just sunlight on the waves. It’s almost disappointing. 

There’s a soft _crunch_ as the front of his canoe digs into the sandy shore, perfectly timed to distract him from wondering why he finds the sunlight disappointing. Instead he’s now wondering how he made it back so quickly. Did he catch a fortunate tide? Or was he simply distracted enough not to realise how long he was paddling for? 

Mako shakes his head and heaves himself overboard. It was a fortunate tide; nothing more. But the sand beneath his feet feels clingier today, like it’s trying to pull him down ( _like it’s trying to keep him in the water where he now belongs_ ) and there’s scratches on the prow that look suspiciously like something with claws was holding on for the ride. Or pulling him forwards with strokes of a powerful, sweeping tail. 

He hurries with the beaching, being careful not to look out to sea. In fact, it isn’t until he’s finished scaling the moki (with his back firmly to the waves) and is preparing to head back to his village that he so much as dares to look at the water again.  
The sun’s still a few fingers above the horizon but the water is already a rippling mass of oranges and reds. It’s the same sight he’s seen a thousand times before; nothing different, nothing out of the ordinary. Yet this time he could almost swear that the ocean’s being lit by a pair of burning sunset eyes, and they’ve set the entire sea aflame. 

It’s a long, quiet and lonely walk back to his village. Every step he takes feels harder than the one before it. But in his fisherman’s body beats the heart of warrior, so Mako continues walking on to a place he worries will no longer feel like home.

* * *

By the time he reaches his village the sun has reached the horizon and is starting to sink below it but there’s enough light left that the fire in the _wharekai_ hasn’t been lit yet. He’s grateful for that; it means fewer people out and about, which in turn means fewer people to question him about the fish. He’s cleaned them up as best he can but the taniwha’s gifts still look a little strange in comparison to the others. He doesn’t much like the idea of having to answer why. 

He makes it into the _marae_ and all the way to the back of the _wharekai_ without having to do anything more than grunt and nod at folks as he passes them. But just as he’s laying out the moki on the communal table a voice rings through the room: ‘Mako! I thought I saw you heading in here.’ 

Mako closes his eyes; it’s Etera. Of all the people he doesn’t want to have to deal with right now, Etera is the one he doesn’t want to have to deal with the most. His grandfather is sharp-sighted, insightful and knows Mako as well as he knows the land around them. Etera probably already knows something’s wrong just by looking at him. But to not answer would be worse than lying, so Mako opens his eyes again and continues laying out the moki as if today is no different to any other day. ‘Your eyes are still as sharp as ever, _koro_.’ 

The old man grunts approval. His footsteps sound unbearably loud as he walks towards Mako. ‘They don’t need to be sharp to see a catch that good.’ He falls silent again, just long enough for Mako to think he’s in the clear, and then: ‘Don’t need to be sharp to see you avoiding folks on the way in, either.’ 

Mako shrugs. ‘It’s been a long day,’ he says, keeping his eyes on the moki. 

‘Most days are.’ 

‘Am I not allowed to be tired now and then?’ 

Weather-worn brown hands are placed atop his own. Etera isn’t a small man by any means but compared to Mako everyone in the village is small, and two of Etera’s hands only just cover one of Mako’s. ‘Mako,’ he says, quietly but deliberately, in a tone of voice that suggests to argue would be useless. 

In that moment Mako is suddenly terrified that Etera knows everything. Etera was watching from the mountains as he fished, saw him throw back the fish that now lie scaled and ready for cooking, saw him let the taniwha climb into his _waka_ without a fight and he _knows_ why Mako is avoiding folks tonight. He knows that Mako is the taniwha’s thing now. Etera knows everything and if Mako was in trouble before, he’s in even more trouble now. 

Etera puts a hand under Mako’s jaw and raises his chin so that they’re looking each other eye to eye, like he used to do when Mako was a child and had misbehaved. ‘Mako,’ he repeats, ‘how long have I known you?’ 

It’s a routine almost as old as time itself, or at least it’s always felt that way to Mako. _How long have I known you?_ , the _kauheke_ asks. _Always_ , you say, because at that moment in time it’s the truth. They have always known you. Their white hair and spider-silk skin proves it. They have always known you and they _will_ always know you, maybe even better than you know yourself. You'd be a fool to think otherwise. 

‘Always,’ Mako says, but this time it’s a lie, because he’s not himself anymore. Something changed today out on the water and Mako is no longer the man ( _boy_ ) that Etera has always known. 

Part of him wants Etera to know what happened. Etera is as wise as he is old, as understanding as he is strong, and if anyone can return Mako to the way he was this morning it will be Etera. But another, louder part tells him that Etera will run him out just as surely as the others will, because Mako should have known better than to even talk to a taniwha… and Mako doesn’t want to _disappoint_ Etera, does he? 

Something deep in his gut begins to burn. It burns and churns deep down, a searing heat that rises up through the back of his throat and threatens to make the corners of his eyes sting, and he doesn’t have the faintest idea why. He feels like the child he hasn’t been for seasons and in that moment he would give almost anything to pretend today has been nothing but a bad dream. Almost anything… except for the memory of those smouldering sunset eyes. 

Suddenly Mako doesn’t know if he wants to go back to how he was this morning. The thought terrifies him even more than Etera knowing the truth. 

‘Always,’ Etera confirms, a hint of a smile in the wrinkles of his eyes. If he sees the conflict in Mako’s soul he’s not saying anything – at least not yet. ‘And because of that, don’t you think it’s a little silly to try and pretend nothing’s wrong when you speak to me?’ 

He knew. He _always_ knew. Mako was a fool to think for a moment that he didn’t. 

A wave of relief crashes over him; moments later it’s swamped by a wave of cold terror, then a wave of guilt, until his entire being is a churning pool of muddied emotion. His heart is pounding so loudly that it’s impossible for Etera not to hear it. ‘I didn’t want to concern you,’ he mutters, and it’s almost the truth this time. 

Etera tuts. ‘Mako, you’re a grown man now; it’s not my place to tell you when to speak or hold your tongue. But don’t take me for a fool. I know you and I know when something is wrong.’ 

Mako looks down at the weathered and time-worn brown hand still sitting gently atop his own and he can’t help but remember a time when Etera’s hands seemed gigantic compared to his. He can’t help but remember a time when just one of Etera’s hands was enough to swallow up both of his own, a time when Etera’s hands weren’t so worn and tired, and it all feels so much longer ago that it was. 

‘Avoiding people,’ Etera says, ‘missing one of your feathers, and carrying a catch too big to come from just one man.’ 

He wants to speak, to apologise for failing Etera and the others so badly, but the memory of the eyes in the sunset holds his tongue. He wants to beg forgiveness but at the same time his mind is saying that there’s nothing ( _yet_ ) to beg forgiveness for. He wants to go back to the man he was this morning but he’s not willing to lose what he’s found today, and it’s all just far too much. 

Etera leans in, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘It’s obvious, Mako.’ 

Mako’s heart plummets to the soles of his feet. 

‘You’ve got yourself a secret lover,’ he says, eyes twinkling, and before Mako can so much as blink the weathered brown hands are gone and Etera is walking towards the door, laughing like he’s just heard the funniest joke in the world. 

Mako stares at the back of his own hand like he’s never seen it before. His ears are burning. His gut is churning. A lover. Not a demon or a monster; a lover. 

Even when Etera’s wrong he’s still somehow right, and he still knows Mako better than Mako knows himself. 

Etera pauses at the threshold. Even though Mako can’t see him he knows he’ll be standing there, tapping the side of his nose with a wide grin. ‘Don’t worry,’ Etera says, ‘it’ll be our little secret.’ 

Mako swallows (in confusion? In relief? He can’t tell anymore) and forces himself to nod. ‘Our secret,’ he grunts, in a tone of voice that sounds far smoother than it should. 

Etera leaves, whistling jauntily as he walks away. 

Mako returns to laying out the moki, his thoughts filled with memories of water-like skin stretched taut over sharp bones, of eyes that burn like the sunset, and of an intoxicating smooth and thick voice that he doesn't want to admit he's excited to hear tomorrow. 

He’s still in trouble, and it’s still big, but now he’s scared for an entirely different reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's prompt was "a story about a secret". Originally I'd planned something entirely different for that prompt but Things Happened and here we are instead. There's not an awful lot of the titular critter in this week's story I'm afraid but, given its status as the counterpart to Bunyips, this kind of introspection was going to happen sooner or later (even if the timing was mostly a happy accident). The title (ngaro) translates to secret and/or lost, depending on context, and seemed pretty fitting for this week's tale.
> 
> Also: DOUBLE DIGITS BABY YEAH (and under 24hrs late to boot!). Things have also quietened down IRL too, so with any luck we'll get some more constant updates in the weeks to come.
> 
> As always, if something's problematic or wrong do let me know, and thanks to all of you for your kudos and kind comments! I'm thrilled beyond words to hear how many of you are enjoying the ride so far.


	11. Unwanted Quiet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's not stupid... just very, very stubborn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part something of the New Beginnings AU, set slightly before Week 8's "Nothing But Scraps".

It’s kind of wrong having to set up camp by himself again. Normally he’d pull up and by the time he’d swung his leg off the bike Rat would already be stringing half a dozen traps together (or have the fire already roaring, depending on the weather) but this time – well. This time _he’s_ the one setting the traps and stoking the fire. This time he’s the one setting up rudimentary shade-covers and getting the billy on the boil. He’s the one who chose the site, he’s the one who’s deciding whose swag goes where and he’s doing it entirely on his own for the first time in a good seven months. 

He’s not bitching about it, mind you. Even if Rat wasn’t still asleep in the side-car he’d be refusing to let the kid help him. Not that Rat would be able to help much in the first place, which is kind of the whole fucking point. 

What kind of bodyguard lets his boss lose almost a whole goddamn leg? 

Roadhog grunts as he tears a branch off a dead paperbark. No; he’s had plenty of time on the ride to go over this. Yes, Rat lost a leg, but he’s still alive. Roadhog _saved him_. Shared his mask, shared his Hogdrogen, showed him his face – and Rat’s still alive and kicking. 

Well… he’s alive, anyway. 

A little twist of something pangs in his gut and he glances over at the bike. Yep, his boss hasn’t moved – he can still see the tuft of blond hair poking over the top of the side-car, rising and falling just a smidge in time with Rat’s breathing. No twitching. No coughing. 

Another thing adding to the wrongness of it all. Seeing Junkrat so still and quiet. 

He forces himself to look away, drags his attention back to the task at hand. There’ll be time enough for introspection later. Right now he needs to get the camp set up. His stomach’s been churning something horrible for the last couple hours and he’d really like a cup of tea to settle it before Rat perks up again (because he _will_ perk up again; he has to. He _will_.). 

As he pulls another branch off the paperback, he makes a mental note to chuck out the last of the smoked ‘roo he had for breakfast. If it’s making his gut churn it’ll make Rat puke and he has absolutely no desire to deal with that on top of everything else.  
Never mind the churning only kicked in after the fight. Never mind they only smoked it a couple days ago. It’s the ‘roo; nothing else fits. 

He’s starting to get a little concerned about how frequently he has to keep telling himself things lately.

* * *

As it turns out, setting up camp on his own feels positively normal compared to sitting around camp on his own. It’s been an hour or two now and Junkrat’s still asleep in the side-car (he thought about lifting him out but decided against it; Rat’s slept in less comfortable places than that), leaving Roadhog with the run of the place. Before today he’d have been thankful for the quiet. Today he’s still thankful for the quiet, just a little, but it’s the wrong kind of quiet and it’s putting his teeth on edge. 

He bites off another strip of smoked ‘roo and chews it slowly. The two mugs of tea he had earlier did jack and shit to stop his guts churning but he hasn’t puked yet, so fuck it. Better than leaving Rat unconscious on his own to go hunt something fresh. 

Christ, look at him. A couple months ago he’d have jumped at the chance for an afternoon as quiet as this – forget that, he’d have killed for it, and nearly did on more than one occasion. Right now he’d kill for there to be something ( _someone_ ) to listen to. Twenty years alone and now suddenly his own company isn’t enough? 

He resists the urge to look over at the side-car. Instead he tightens his grip around the empty mug and rips off another strip of ‘roo. 

The thing is, Roadhog’s not a stupid man. He’s hardly academic, at least these days, but he’s not stupid. Just stubborn. Stubborn, set in his ways and painfully aware of just how destructive listening to emotions over reason can be. Shit, he’s reminded as much every time they find yet another abandoned town, every time they piss on the rusted-out shell of a long-since-destroyed omnic, every time he wakes up in the dead of night with his heart pounding and their names on his tongue – how the fuck could he ever forget? 

Emotions are the death of reason. With the death of reason often comes the death of far more. Ergo, emotions are not worth listening to. That was his motto. 

No – _is. Is_ his motto. He’s too old and worn to be starting this shit again. 

He swallows the ‘roo and rips off another mouthful. In front of him, the fire crackles merrily as the paperbark branches turn to ash. 

It’s not like he’s _fond_ of Junkrat. That idea’s stupid enough to make him snort aloud; he hasn’t done fondness since the Omnium blew. Fondness is something for the folks who live in the coastal cities and pretend that the outback doesn’t really exist, who have two-point-five kids and a mutt named Rover. Fondness isn’t for survivors, for scavengers, for junkers. Fondness isn’t for folks like him and Rat. 

It’s not like it’s friendship either, not really – the runt’s his boss after all, and Roadhog _did_ spend the better part of three months torturing him (no matter how many times Rat insists it’s water under the bridge, he can never quite bring himself to believe it). Their relationship’s all business. Friendship, like fondness, is something that gets folks in the outback killed. He should know; he’s taken enough hostages over the years. 

Yet whatever it was, it was enough to have him scared. It was enough that he willingly showed Junkrat his face without intending to murder him afterwards, and enough that he blew two canisters of Hogdrogen without a second thought. Most worryingly, it was enough that he’s still thinking about it several hours after the fact… and enough that he’s eating off ‘roo instead of going out for a hunt. 

So what is it, then? 

He glances over to the side-car. The tuft of singed blond hair is still visible over the rim, exactly where it was the last time he looked, and if he looks closely enough he can still see the tiny movements that tell him Junkrat’s still breathing. 

Ironic, almost. When they first met he could’ve put a shell through Rat without even blinking. Seven months down the track and he’s watching Rat breathe in his sleep because he’s afraid of being alone again. 

Because that’s what it is, really. Fear. Not the adrenaline kind of fear, not the fight-or-flight kind of fear; just a heavy thing at the bottom of his gut that’s grown far too used to having someone else around. He’s not afraid for Junkrat; he’s afraid for himself. It’s gotta be the case. He’s too old and worn for it to be anything else. 

He’s not stupid, after all. Just stubborn and painfully aware of how dangerous it is to listen to emotion over reason. 

As the skirmish earlier today proved, life’s cheap and all too often short in the outback. Junkrat is his boss and _only_ his boss. Roadhog’s allowed to be afraid of being alone, but only for the fact it means he’ll have to go back to doing everything himself again. 

Roadhog looks back to the fire and tears another strip of meat from the bone. The churning’s slowly starting to settle, quieting down to a deep, gnawing sensation at the bottom of his gut. 

Christ, he hopes Rat wakes up soon.

* * *

A few quiet and painfully introspective hours later, Roadhog’s attention is pulled away from his empty mug as soft clanking sounds from the side-car. Rat’s still not moving much – the tuft of blond hair is still visible exactly where it was the last time he looked over – but the clanking’s new. Sounds kind of like someone upended a takeaway container full of screws on a metal floor. 

He puts his empty mug aside and heaves himself to his feet. ‘Junkrat?’ 

The tuft of hair vanishes into the side-car. 

Roadhog walks a little faster. 

When he gets closer, though, it becomes apparent that his concern is misplaced; Rat’s eyes are still closed and he’s definitely not fully conscious yet. He’s even still got the blanket wrapped around him – definitely not awake yet. 

Roadhog’s eyes stray to the dark, sticky-looking patch on the blanket near Rat’s new stump. It’s bigger than he thought it’d be for two canisters of Hogdrogen. Then again, Hogdrogen’s not really designed for sealing over amputated limbs, so maybe he should just be grateful he’ll only have to worry about keeping it clean instead of stitching it up. 

Christ, listen to him. He sounds like a bloody nurse. 

Junkrat yawns widely and arches his head back against the wall of the side-car, still apparently loathe to let go of the blanket. He mutters something that Roadhog doesn’t quite catch, furrows his brows like he’s weighing out explosives, then opens his eyes. He blinks hazily up at Roadhog once, twice – and then his frown deepens. ‘Roadie? The fuck are you doin’ here?’ 

That… that is not the greeting he anticipated. ‘What?’ 

‘Ya deaf? What are _you_ –’ Rat extends an arm in his general direction – ‘doin’ _here_?’ – and sweeps it out in a vague semi-circle. 

Roadhog looks out at the area around them. He’d originally planned to head for the nearest town to get Rat’s leg checked out but decided against it after spotting the entry to this canyon; far better, for his money, to let Rat rest and heal up somewhere quiet instead of spending the next week rattling around in the side-car. The canyon was isolated, easily defensible, had plenty of fuel for firewood and a billabong with rad levels low enough to be covered by pills. What the hell kind of problem could Junkrat possibly have with it? 

‘Ya weren’t in the buildin’, there’s no way that blast shoulda caught you,’ Junkrat mutters, more to himself than to Roadhog. ‘Least, ya weren’t the last I saw…’ 

He sighs. ‘I’m not dead, Rat.’ 

‘Then why’re you here?’ 

‘You’re not dead either.’ 

Junkrat snorts. ‘Don’t be stupid. No way I’m not dead. Caught the fuckin’ tyre on a chunk of concrete an’ flattened the joint not five metres from meself; that ain’t the kinda thing ya walk away from.’ 

‘You didn’t,’ he says, silently wondering just how it is he’s come to be here, arguing with his boss over whether said boss is dead or not. Twenty years surviving in the wastelands never prepared him for this shit. ‘I carried you.’ 

Rat gives him a suspicious sideways glance. 

‘I pulled you out from the rubble, gave you Hogdrogen to stop the bleeding, then put you in the side-car. You’re not dead. Came close to it, but you’re not dead.’ 

Junkrat slowly shakes his head, but he looks far less convinced than before. ‘Gotta be dead. I remember you takin’ yer mask off an’ ain’t no way I’d be alive if that happened, y’know?’ 

Right. That was something he’d done. He’d kind of been hoping Junkrat had forgotten but evidently he wasn’t going to be so fortunate. 

He exhales heavily, his fingers curling around the lip of the side-car’s rim. ‘You’re alive _because_ I took my mask off. Not gonna save you just to kill you.’ When Rat still doesn’t look convinced he grabs the filters on his mask and raises it just enough to show off the _tā moko_ on his chin. 

Well, he wasn’t going to take it _all_ the way off again. Not now, at least. 

By the time he’s lowered it back into place Rat’s staring at him like he’s seen a ghost. ‘Ya… ya really did it, huh?’ he asks, his voice a soft and pale imitation of its normal confident tone. ‘Ya really… that was y’ face. Yer _real_ face. An’ yer Hogdrogen… me leg…’ His fingers stray to his bloodied, torn and charred pants, ghosting over the scraps of fabric laying so painfully flat against the side-car floor, and his breath stutters in his throat. 

The sound of the fluttering breath catches in Roadhog’s ears. It worms its way through his brain and down through his chest before settling in the deepest part of his guts, coiled thick and heavy like an old ball python. It’s a sound he hasn’t heard for years – 

(‘ _Aroha? Shit, what’s wrong –_ ’) 

– and in an instant he’s on edge, wound tighter than the blanket around Rat’s free hand and he knows that if Rat breaks then he’s completely and utterly fucked. 

Roadhog forces himself to unclench his fists. Enforcer’s motto: act, then react. 

With a louder-than-necessary grunt he leans over the side-car, scooping up both Rat and the blanket effortlessly. It’s both comforting and disturbing to realise that Rat isn’t all that much lighter than he was before. ‘Yeah. It’s gone.’ 

In all fairness, “counsellor” has _never_ been on his resume. 

There’s an awful moment of nothingness as he carries his boss towards the fire. Not silence, because the dried leaf husks make a delightful crunching noise under his steel-cap boots as he walks; just nothingness. The calm before the storm. The flash of lightning before the thunder. 

Then Junkrat giggles. It’s not the right giggle, not his usual deranged hyena laugh, but it’s definitely a giggle. ‘No shit,’ he croaks, and giggles again. Forces himself to, more like it. ‘You… you ain’t the type to pull it.’ 

Normally he’d just ignore Junkrat’s awful attempt at humour. He’d read this thing about training dogs once, way back when, that said if you wanted an animal to stop doing something then all you had to do was ignore it when it misbehaved and only stop ignoring it once it started behaving the way you wanted it to again. Sure, Junkrat’s a lot more stubborn than a dog, but the principle remained the same. 

Normally he hasn’t just spent the better part of a day alone in the quiet after almost letting Junkrat die, though. And considering Rat’s just woken up after losing his leg… well, it could’ve been worse. 

‘That was terrible,’ Roadhog grunts. 

He’s rewarded with a short burst of laughter ( _real_ laughter) from Junkrat and the tension in the air seems to lift a little.

‘C’mon, mate,’ Junkrat says, relaxing ever so slightly, ‘Least I didn’t leave ya _stumped_.’ 

Roadhog groans aloud. But the evening air’s not quite so empty now that Junkrat's laughing, even if it _is_ for all the wrong reasons, and beneath his mask he can’t help but smile. Just a little.

It takes quite a while before he realises his stomach’s stopped churning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's theme was "a story about loneliness" - yes, I know I promised hurt/comfort while Rat was adjusting to his peg leg, but things got a little bit out of hand so that'll be coming in yet another later week. One of these days I'll get better about writing warm and fuzzy without a buttload of angst first. (Ha ha haaaaaaaa)
> 
> On a semi-related note: I am so sorry for the delays and radio silence. Work, mental health, physical health and life decided to stage an all-out, no-holds-barred title fight for Ultimate Pain in the Ass over the last fortnight. Net result: my planned double update last week instead turned into a planned triple update this week that has now become a single update this week (week 11) and a double update next week (week 12/13), with another double update coming sometime in the near future (probably not next-next week, but hopefully soon). I promise I haven't forgotten about this! I'd just much rather delay a story than give you guys a rushed, half-baked kind of deal, and I'm very aware that stuff I write while sick or stressed is... well, not as good as what you guys deserve. I will hopefully get around to responding to comments tomorrow (it's getting late here in Aus) and will hopefully get back on track with this series in the near-ish future! Y'know... just in time for things to get busy again. Ah well. I'm making 52 stories, come hell or high water, even if they do end up slightly delayed.
> 
> TL, DR: vastly overestimated my capacity to write while under the pump. This week (week 13) has week 11's story. Week 14 has the stories from weeks 12 and 13, and week 14's story will be slotted in with either week 15 or another week. Y'all are fantastic and deserve Quality Content so updates are slightly delayed while I attempt to produce something close to it. <3, Art


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